Sump Pup

That's NOT a misspelling in the title! NOT a dream (although it kinda resembles a nightmare)! NOT an imaginary tail (pun intended)! And NOT a hoax!

No, this is the traumatic tale of one dog's disastrous Thanksgiving. This is the tale of Mr. Loomis and his terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad holiday.

For those of you who don't recall, Mr. Loomis is our special needs, 15-year-old Lhasa Apso dog (with a bit of Dachshund tossed in for extra length!). He's 95% deaf and blind and sometimes bounces around like a pinball looking for a hole to fall into. I have a certain soft-spot and affinity for Mr. Loomis because he reminds me of myself: he's a cranky old man who never gives up.

But I digress. Why I remember that traumatic Thanksgiving morning like it was last week...because it was...(cue the wavy vision and flashback music)...

My wife thought it'd be a great idea for Mr. Loomis to get a bath Thanksgiving morning. After all, we had family coming over and Mr. Loo needed to look (and, um, smell) his best.

Mr. Loomis doesn't like baths. He groused, grumbled, tossed and turned, fighting my wife, until he finally resorted to howling. But she--and he--powered through it.

Once Mr. Loomis was out of the tub, my wife and I went upstairs to put some crap away, leaving Mr. Loo (and our other two dogs) free to roam the main floor.

My wife went down first, then called up, "Hey, did Mr. Loomis come up there?"

I looked around, knowing full well he hadn't. "No...can't you find him?" Panic set in. I had no idea what had happened to our senior dog. He definitely can't manage stairs any longer by himself, riddled as he is with arthritis.

I raced downstairs (well...as close to "racing" as I can get, seeing as how my knees are arthritic also). Now I couldn't find my wife either. Clearly, there was only one possible realistic conclusion: alien abduction.

But before I called Mulder and Scully, I heard a detached, echoing bark from the basement. (Actually, it was more like a "YARK!" Loomis doesn't say much, but on the rare occasion he does, it's always one loud, snappish, angry YARK.)

My wife's voice resounded up the basement stairs as well. "Oh my God," she exclaimed. "How'd he get in there?"

Mr. Loomis had somehow tumbled down the basement stairs, managing not to break any bones. Even worse, he'd found the worst possible place to land in the basement: he'd fallen into the sump pump.

Panic really kicked in when my wife told me he was swimming in the sump pump. She fished him out. When I looked down the stairs, Mr. Loomis was running away from my wife with her following in hot pursuit.

"Is he okay?" I asked.

"He's fine. Just mad."

He was about to get even madder. Now, my clearly freaked out wife said, "Guess what dude? You're getting another bath." Turning toward me, she added, "Is it too early for a drink?"

Let this be a cautionary tale for all. To paraphrase the great philosopher Willie Nelson: "Mamas, don't let your puppies fall in the sump pump."

Since our Thanksgiving went the way of the dogs, look out for other hairy creatures in the work place. Of course I'm talking about my black comedy/horror opus, Corporate Wolf, the only book that takes aim at corporate America through the lens of werewolf vision. It's complicated. Find out how so, here!

The Roof of a Dog's Mouth

When I was a kid, our family would go "dog shopping (we never considered getting a rescue dog; I'm not sure if it was a "thing" back then or if my parents stubbornly refused to do so, because it was "low class," but we never did)." So we'd go into strangers' houses and look at their litter of puppies, always cocker spaniels.

First thing my dad did was wrestle a dog, wrangle its jaws wide open, and look at the color of the dog's roof of its mouth. Of course, the dogs never liked that one bit and the puppy vendors were always mortified.

My dad explained, "I heard that if the roof of a dog's mouth is black, it's a really smart dog. That guy there is our dog!"

Not sure how scientifically sound Dad's theory was, I came to doubt it based on the not very bright behavior of some of our dogs.

So I turned to my research assistant, Ms. Google, for corroboration. To which she gladly obliged...

Theresa, a cat vet of 19 years (and why exactly is she being quoted about a dog question?), says "the color on the roof of the mouth is just pigment. It has no meaning at all. It doesn't determine intelligence or breed, yet people in the past thought the more dark in the mouth, the better the breed, but this is just an old wives tale."

Okay, fair enough. But I started wondering just how in hell such a myth got started in the first place. Did a bunch of bored farmers' wives gather around the kitchen with their dogs to try to outdo one another?

"Say, Myrtle, look at the roof of my dog's mouth! It's black!"

"I swan, it sure is, Esther, but what in the world does it mean?"

"Why, Myrtle! EVERYONE knows that it's a sign that you gotcher self a smart dog!"

"Hmmph...I guess ol' Keester here ain't so smart after all. Lookee at the pink on the upside of his mouth."

(Later Myrtle and Esther were mauled--Siegfried and Roy style--by their dogs for wrenching their mouths open.)

While the origin of this ridiculous myth is "lost to the ages," a lot of people online have heard of it, especially hunters and old-time farmers. Of course, things could be worse: an Asian myth is that some dog breeds have blue tongues to ward off evil spirits.

Speaking of goofy myths and evil spirits, you'll find a slew of them in my horror story collection, Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. And unlike the old wives tale about a dog's mouth, I swear to you that every tale in my tome is TRUE. Find out how true right here!

Porn Star Puppy

Our new little puppy, Biscuit, is a pup of few talents, unless one considers chasing one's own tail to be an award-winning talent. If that classifies, he's a world champion. But to our shock, we soon discovered he had a...ahem...hidden talent, you might say, one in which heretofore he had kept covered up. Mercifully so.

One day while coming out of the shower, Biscuit lay in my path, licking something between his paws.

Exasperatedly, I said, "Biscuit, where'd you get the hot dog OH MY GOD!!!" Never in all of my many years of owning numerous male dogs have I ever seen such a...well, such a huge package on a dog.

My wife had first noticed it several weeks before. While upstairs, she said, "huh...weird."

When she came down, I was dying to know what was so weird (or at least weirder than the norm for our house). She said, "Biscuit's penis seems to be abnormally long."

I thought nothing of it. Until that fateful day when I came out of the shower. Starkers. Feeling kinda inadequate next to our "little" puppy.

It's always the little guy, it always is.

Zowie! Speaking of intellectual humor of the most scintillating sort, give my Zach and Zora books a shot. Critics everywhere have been hailing the series as "sophisticated, smart, witty, urbane, and...and..." I can't do it. I just can't keep lying to you. The books are crazy, nutty, goofy, politically incorrect, and dumb. Kinda like the main character, Zach, a dunderheaded male stripper whose sleuth sister has to keep bailing him out of being a murder suspect. But, hey, they make me laugh! And I'm unbiased! Check 'em out here!

Tail-Chasing

Usually, I believe that dogs have it made. What a cush life.  Sitting around all day, sleeping long hours, pooping wherever the whim takes you, being fed and taken care of, all in return for a little love. Easy-peasy.

Until you start considering the ultimate act of futility: chasing one's tail. I mean, what are they expecting? 

"Some day I'll get you, you damned tail," they'll growl. "So close, yet so far! But one of these days...one of these days, mister!"

Now, I've seen some smart dogs and some dumb dogs. Currently, we run the gamut of mutt-types in our house. Our newest dog, Biscuit, is a tail-chaser. But, c'mon! Chasing your own tail has got to be one of the most aggravating and useless wastes of time since approaching a MAGA guy and hoping for inciteful political debate.

Everyone knows Einstein's definition of madness: "Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results." Well, fine, in a dog's defense, I'm sure they're not very well-schooled on Einstein. But surely, they've run into a smarter dog than them who might help to guide them.

"Hey. Hey, Longfellow...Psst...you know your tail's attached to you, right?"

"Whaaaaaaaat? No it's not! Quit pulling my paw!"

DO they know their tail is attached to them? I had so many questions, so I turned to my trusty research assistant (who ALWAYS supplies nothing but facts), Dr. Google.

Dr. Google found a quote from an animal behaviorist who works at Camp Bow Wow (no, I'm not making this up; everything Dr. Google tells me is always true.): "Dogs are aware that their tails are attached to them. However, puppies may be exploring their bodies in this manner."

Well, I guess I can understand that. I spent many an adolescent day behind bathroom doors exploring my body, if you know what I mean and I think you do.

But there are also other reasons for tail-chasing. There's OCD. Now...leave it to us to adopt a puppy with OCD. But that may explain Biscuit's sitch. Every day we gather up the dog toys and every day, he must grab every single one of them and spread them all over the house, setting traps for his clumsy people.

Or it could be boredom. That holds true for our new puppy addition, certainly. Guy never rests and he hates when I'm on the computer. That's generally when most tail-chasing occurs.

Yet the behaviorist went on to say that the reason why they may be chasing their tails is they like the reaction people give them. While it's true that I laugh at Biscuit's ludicrous behavior, he'll always stop in his tracks upon hearing me as if in a game of musical chairs and stand very still. Definitely no tail-wagging as the behaviorist said they'll do upon pleasing their humans. So I'm going back to OCD as our puppy's diagnosis.

Furthermore, the behaviorist suggests taking your dog to the vet upon continuous tail-chasing. Where, I dunno, I suppose the vet will put the pup onto a chaise and ask him about his mother and stuff.

"Okay, Biscuit, what does this ink blot look like to you?" Dr. Freud will ask.

"Woof!" (Translation: "My tail!")

I believe Biscuit is truly in his "anal stage."

Speaking of dime-store psychology, you'll find a ton of it in my thriller trilogy, Killers Incorporated. Take my protagonist, Leon Garber. He's got some issues, a few daddy issues amongst other things. He's also a serial killer. Oh! And he's the hero! Read about his exploits in the darkly, morbidly humorous suspense trilogy, beginning with the first book, Secret Society!

Cone-a-copia

I hate dog cones. Probably not as much as dogs do, but I'm right up there with them. So imagine the fun that developed when one of our dogs and one of my daughter's dogs ended up in cones at the same damn time! My wife and I were juggling responsibilities between our house and my daughters' trying to keep the conesiness of it all relatively sane and safe for humans and dogs alike.

Here's what happened to poor little Mr. Loomis...

While playing with the fence-jumping neighbors' golden lab, Loomis got caught in the crossfire between his larger (younger) sister and the lab. While inside, I heard a blood-curdling shriek from Loomis and went out to see what the problem was. Apparently, the neighbor heard it too, but his dog clearly felt guilt-ridden and wouldn't heed his owner's calling, instead looking forlornly, tail between legs, back at Loomis.

But the damage had been done.

A couple days later, I noticed that Loomis' eye had gunked up. Naturally, I noticed this the day before I was to go help out my daughter with her dogs and the day before my wife was leaving town.

"Hmmm, there appears to be something wrong with Loomis' eye," I said.

The vet verified this. "Well, he has an ulcer on his eye and it's a bad one."

An ulcer??? In the eye??? My limited medical knowledge thought that an ulcer was something you develop in your stomach because you're worried about making financial ends meet or the current state of politics or what decent clothes I may have that still fit. Definitely not an eye issue!

So, armed with seven kinds of eyedrops and 34--count 'em, 34!--applications through the day (and all spaced apart, natch), we went down the long road of coneheadedness. The cone was clearly too large for Mr. Loomis. He'd sadly drag it through the backyard, face down into the dirt. Inside, he'd bang into everything he possibly could. At night, when he'd go into the bathroom for a drink of water, he'd constantly shut the door onto himself by bashing the door with his cone. Worse than having a baby, I was up numerous times through several nights.

And all the time, Loomis would give me a look suggesting, "Why in the HELL are you punishing me, bald baby man?"

So we bought him a "comfy cone." Comfy cones are designed to be...well, comfy. Softer and smaller and more pliable than the damn plastic cones of torture, I wasn't sure how it would work, if it'd keep Loomis from rubbing his eye. I believe it helped, but he was still locking himself into the bathroom. He even did it when he finally got the cone off, maybe seeking fun where he could or he'd emBARKed on a revenge tour to destroy my sleep. Loomis certainly hated the velcro ripping sound when we'd put the cone on him, paddling his paws madly, trying to make a getaway from the constant torture.

Meanwhile, in my daughter's town, Merle had surgery to remove some masses. 

Now, Merle is a huge, honkin' Redbone Coonhound who sounds and acts like an angry walrus, probably not the ideal candidate for The Great Coning. But cone him we did, although he rarely kept it on. And talk about banging around into things. My Gawd, you'd think it was Fourth of July, 24-7: BANG! CRACK! SPILL! TUMBLE, TUMBLE, TUMBLE...wash, rinse, repeat.

When the vet told us he needed to keep the cone on for two weeks, we screamed "TWO WEEKS???" causing the entire vet clinic to erupt in a pandemonium of barking, led by Merle himself, who I'm sure didn't even understand why he was barking, but he loves the act sooooooooo much.

My daughter took a cue from us and ordered Merle a "Comfy Cone." I had doubts, mainly because Merle possesses super-animal strength and is able to bend steel bars with the power of his jaws. But Merle had doubts because when we opened the comfy cone package, the item was pink.

"That is NOT what I ordered," said my daughter, taking in the pinkishness of it all. "Amazon's trying to make my dog a sissy."

I tried to comfort her trauma over the emasculation of Merle by telling her her dog looked like he was wearing a bad-ass hoodie. Just a pink one (tee hee hee).

As of this writing, we've finally done away with the two cones (or four, if you're keeping count). My wife thinks I anthropomorphize the dogs and their responses to cones too much. But their abject misery is way too palpable to ignore and the looks on their faces are just heartbreaking. Bah. The only good cone is of the ice cream variety.

While I'm yakking about dogs, a dog plays an important role in my book Secret Society, the first in the Killers Incorporated trilogy. But that's not all! There are more serial killers to be found in the pages of these morbidly amusing, dark, suspense thrillers than you can shake a dog at. And they're the "good guys." It's complicated. Read all about it here! (No dogs were harmed during the writing of this book, unless you count a "coning," which I certainly think is harmful to a dog's mental state of mind, so never mind my ASPCA disclaimer.)

My Doggy Bodyguard

I feel so safe with Mr. Loomis having my back. For you see, he's my bodyguard.

It's not like we chose him to do this job. We didn't train him for the position. No, he's taken it upon himself to keep an eye on me 24-7, never letting me out of his sight, always following me even into the bathroom (which is becoming more of a communal experience in our house; not only does my wife have the uncanny accuracy of a heat-seeking missile while tracking me down whenever I'm sitting on the porcelain throne, but when you toss in two dogs into the small bathroom as well, it makes for a very unsatisfying time, if you know what I mean. But I digress...).

I have to wonder if Mr. Loomis feels he's doing a good job. Let's look at the facts: A) He's all of 22 pounds; B) He's fourteen years old; C) He's extremely hard of hearing. I have to kind of wonder what this little furry old man would do in case someone broke in. Piddle on the floor? What would he do if I fell and couldn't get up? Stare at me like I'm just one big bone as he always does?

Maybe it's in the breed. The Lhasa Apso dog originated in Tibet, where they were bred to be indoor "alarm dogs." They were taught to bark at fire and intruders. This makes somewhat sense, I suppose, in that Mr. Loomis doesn't want me to accidentally set myself on fire, but he rarely barks. Really, the only time he does yip is if he's pissed off at his sister, Bijou, or he wants to be noticed.

My other theory is perhaps something bad happened to his previous owner (we adopted the bonded duo) and he doesn't want to see history repeat itself. This kinda breaks my heart a little bit, but it also explains his neurotic tendencies, especially toward me. I can't sneak off to the kitchen without his shadowing me.

Now if only someone could explain why he's constantly licking the carpet. Maybe he just wants a steady diet full of fiber(s). (I know, I know, sorry, sorry, sorry...)

Speaking of furry critters, did you hear the one about that big corporation in Kansas City whose upper management is largely composed of werewolves? You haven't??? What's wrong with you??? Here's your chance to better yourself as a human being by reading my morbidly amusing horror tale, Corporate Wolf.

 

The Incredible Cat-Dog

Some years back, when my daughter was just a wee lil' lass, I vaguely remember her watching some awful cartoon series on Nickelodeon, called "Cat-Dog." Other than finding the titular critter very creepy, and the show awful, I don't remember much about it, except that I can still belt out the incredibly, annoying ear-worm of a theme song (although in terms of horrific children's entertainment songs, NOTHING beats that damned, infernal "Baby Shark." GAH!).

Little did I realize that a "cat-dog" exists in real life. And my daughter owns him (or maybe he owns her, but we'll get to that). Unlike the cartoon character, he doesn't have a cat head on one end of his body and a dog head on the opposite end (which begs the question, just how did the animated Cat-Dog go to the bathroom?). No, my daughter's pet looks like a dog, but shares some very eerie cat-like traits. Kinda creepy at times.

Stealthy as a Hollywood ninja, Baron creeps around my daughter's house as if wearing slippers. Suddenly, he'll fly up in the air to land on the highest point of furniture around, where he'll roost like a cat. The amazing thing is he doesn't even need a running start. Just leaps up like the most agile cat around.

And he'll watch me. Oh, yes, he'll watch me. Plotting against me, wondering how he can drive me crazy next, perhaps scaring me into a heart attack or barking me into insanity. Because that's what Baron's all about: he's an evil genius who wants to take over the world and rule. He's just biding his time, waiting for the perfect opportunity...

Brrrrrrr.

Don't believe me? Check out this chilling video footage:

I know, right? And as we all know, everything you read or see on the intronets is true!

I have further confirmation from an internet source, Wagwalking.com. They write that dogs are territorial and will protect their space where they're comfortable. Furthermore, if they've settled on a spot above you (hello, Baron!), then they believe themselves to be a notch superior to you in the evolutionary chain.

See what I mean? Plotting against humanity. You guys have seen the Planet of the Apes movies, right? Beware the furry interloper in your house, people! They're plotting--like cats--to take humanity down!

Speaking of dangerous furry interlopers, my book, Corporate Wolf, is chock full of werewolves in perhaps the only corporate satire, horror, black comedy, suspense, thriller, murder mystery around. So get yourself a copy and parade it around town so you can show folks what a trendsetter you are. All the cool kids get it right here.

 

Mr. Loomis' New 'Do

Meet Mr. Loomis. He's small and cute and old and can be a bit cranky at times. That's okay, he's earned the right to be that way, having lived a long life. Doesn't he look cute, cuddly, and innocent?

But we've had personal experience with a dog groomer who would challenge this assessment.

Not too long ago, we took Mr. Loomis into a new, untried groomer for a haircut, which he needs about once a month. The day slowly crawled by as I wondered just how long it takes to give such a tiny guy a haircut.

After lunch, we got the answer. The army of groomers couldn't finish the job because from the minute we dropped Mr. Loomis off, he fought and bit them. A team of three couldn't even get a muzzle on him.

Wait a minute, I thought. Surely, they have the wrong dog!

Nope! That's our Mr. Loomis. Looking at him, you wouldn't think he could scare off three adult "professionals," but that's exactly what he did. How? (It reminded me of stories back in the day of how Herve Villichaize used to beat his wife, and I always wondered, couldn't she have just outrun him? But I digress...)

So, heads held low, we went to go retrieve our dog of destruction, our preying pet, our tiny terror, our ferocious fur-ball. And the nightmarish stories continued. They claimed a ton of them tried, but couldn't get close enough to finish the job.

So...he came out looking kinda funny, like a Dr. Seuss nightmarish creature.

When I told my brother how Mr. Loomis had reacted, his response was, "Good boy!" At first I didn't agree with his proclamation, but upon investigating poor Mr. Loo, we discovered that somehow he'd had his dew claw torn off! I would've been pissed, too. A call to the vet reassured us that it happened all the time, and more than likely, he caught it in the cage. No wonder the groomers hadn't charged us anything.

A few weeks later, we managed to book Mr. Loo into another groomer (these places are crazy booked). All day long, we waited with baited breath for "The Call," but it didn't come. Finally, the phone rang and they said, "he's ready." Nervous, I flew down there, expecting to find a ton of shredded groomer corpses strewn about the building. But they said he was perfectly fine. In fact, other than dropping personal decorations in the building before and after, he'd been a perfect gentleman (okay, maybe that's not very "gentlemanly").

So Mr. Loo's new 'do looked too good to be true! His dew claw regrew! And somewhere there're three grooming "professionals" having PTSD about the lil' dog that conquered. Happy endings all around!

While the dog days of Summer keep on panting, why not check into beautiful Peculiar County for a stay? Be sure and check out the local hotel, where Mittens--a ghost dog--may just keep you up at night barking. C'mon, it adds local color!

 

A crazy, screaming, big dumb guy running down the street carrying a jar of peanut butter!

Yes, that's me. And this is a true tale of Shakespearean woe and trauma.

Let's back up a bit.

My daughter's dog is a furry sociopath. Sure, he's cute. Supposedly a pure beagle (I suspect there's a little dachshund mixed in), there's a lot of Houdini in Baron, because this guy can escape out of any situation, any circumstance, any enclosure.

Devil Spawn!

We have a fenced in back-yard, perfect for entertaining canine pals of all sorts and sizes. On occasion, I watch Baron and his younger, bigger brother (a particularly sloppy--but very lovingly sloppy--"coon hound"), Merle. It hadn't been a problem. Until now.

Sweet angel (even though he knocked me over and broke one of my ribs).

Last time I doggy-sat, Baron had found a way into the next door neighbor's yard, where a day care is in full-swing. Things got screamy, barky, and cryesque.

Totally MacGyvering it, I fortified our fence. Up and down the perimeter, I wedged in logs, bricks, stones, bones (where'd those bones come from? Must've been left over from my neighbor, Bob Burdella. Look him up.) along the fence. Safe and sealed.

Well...

Last Friday, Baron got into the day care yard again. How, I don't know. Naturally the little jerk never comes when called, so the trick is to ignore, then lure him in with food. I let his brah, Merle, inside, thought Baron would come whining at the door like last time.

But I heard nothing. I went outside, couldn't spot the lil' hellspawn anywhere. 

Panic reigned! I didn't think to even grab a leash, but had the mindset to snatch a jar of peanut butter. Into the street I ran, panting, sweating, near tears, craning my head in every direction. Screaming "Baron, c'mon boy, look what I got!" while holding at arm's length my jar of peanut butter (generic, yet crunchy). I'm surprised the S.W.A.T. team didn't lower on me from a task force helicopter, crazy man unleashed in the mean streets of suburban Kansas.

Incredible man of action!

Of course, the cow-patterned shirt was an unlucky sartorial choice, just kinda adding to how crazy I looked.


After twenty minutes, I spotted Baron down the block, a minor miracle with my crappy vision. I pursued. He ran. Fun! The chase continued. Soaking wet, panting like a respirator, I finally cornered Baron into a fenced-in backyard three blocks away. I knelt, stuck my finger in the peanut butter jar, held it out... Warily, the brat came toward me. And I snagged him!

Three blocks--three horribly long blocks--I carried him beneath my arm, cursing, smacking his butt. Crisis averted. 

I SO didn't want to have to give my daughter bad news that I'd lost her dog on my watch. Even though it nearly put me in the E.R. or jail.

Hey, speaking of screwed-up Kansas shenanigans, check out my first short story collection, Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. Every band-aid of Kansas creepiness is ripped off, no shying away from the humorous horror of the Midwest.

Take the plunge! (Not responsible for any emotional damage.)

Thin Walls, Big Heart

I've mentioned the hard times my dog's had lately. (Even harder on me, as I've been relegated to sub-human status, having to sleep in the guest bedroom on the lower level. But I digress. Contrary to my blog, the world isn't all about me).

After two major leg surgeries, Zak's incision started to bleed. Furthermore, he pulled the leg up high and limped.

Uh-oh.

Once again we carted him off to the emergency vet hospital. Nerves frayed, my wife and I sat in a small room, waiting for a frazzling long time.

Around us, animal pandemonium rose. Cries, squeals, yips, barks, growls, the works.

But the worst--the absolutely, heart-rending worst--was the man facing the reality he had to put his dog to sleep.

I don't know what the man looked like. Couldn't really tell you what his actual voice sounded like. But his words, strangled with sobs, tore through the thin walls like an emotional torpedo.

"I guess I was lucky to've known him. I saved him twice before... He'd always been there. My pal. It'd be selfish of me...not to put him to rest.  Oh...God... Oh, my God... I'm sure gonna' miss him. Whatever you can do to make him more comfortable. This is the hardest day..."

He went on. The doctor stayed respectfully quiet, listening to the man working through his anguish.  By the time he was done, both my wife and I were soap-opera-sodden messes, eyes bleary with tears. And we gave Zak a little bit of extra loving.

The good news is Zak just had issues with fluid or something. I dunno. I was still too distraught over the man in the hallway's angst.

I've put down dogs before. Each time it takes while to get over it. It's sad, yet I know it's the best thing to do. But like Sad Hallway Man, you can't help but be torn up over it. It takes effort to work your way through the steps, internally argue and debate. Cry a bit.

After I put my twin cocker spaniels to sleep, I vowed not to get another dog. Time passed. So did my vow. But I still wonder if pet ownership's worth the awful sadness experienced at the end of a beloved dog's life.

Kinda like how I felt after my divorce some years ago. Should I even risk putting myself through such trauma again? Is the clearly never been in love and broken idiot who said "'Tis better to have loved and lost than never have loved at all" right? 

Eat it, Lord Tennyson. 

But the answer, of course, is yes.

I love my wife.

I love my dog.

I don't so much love sleeping in a tiny bed in the guest room, but whatever. Tis better to sleep than not sleep at all.

The six million dollar dog!

That's my boy! A very expensive boy!

Recently, Zak blew out his knee. Irreparably damaged. One extremely costly operation later, he's home. Drugged out of his furry mind and stuck in the Cone of Shame.

The vet tells us Zak needs six months of recovery time. 

Six months???

That entails keeping him on a leash always, confining him to small quarters, watching him, doting on him, giving him massages and physical therapy for God's sake. It's up to me to take care of him 24-7 and make sure "he doesn't get excited." I said to the vet, "You're kidding, right?" Zak's a force of nature, as out of control as a tornado. He practically destroys the house trying to get to the mailman.

Now, I have to sleep downstairs because Zak can't handle the stairs to go up to our bedroom where he usually sleeps. We have a special harness to lift his back end up so he can take the two steps down off the deck into the yard. He can't be left alone and I can't go anywhere. Much to my mom's disgust, I can't take her on her weekly shopping and yelling sprees ("Huh. I guess your dog's more important than me.")

I feel like I'm under house arrest. A full-time job.

Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, they did. In one of those quirky moments that fate seems to love to toss my way, I fell off a stepladder in the garage. Now Zak and I hobble together up and down the street in painful, short walks. (It's funny how pet owners begin to resemble their pets: I have a limp, arthritis and gray whiskers! So does Zak!).

Seriously...if you're reading this, send help!