The Secret Message of Dogs

Recently, we've encountered a problem.

Up until about a couple of months ago, our dogs--both of them--were house-broken and potty-trained. But for whatever reason, they've now decided to be defiant and go rogue. And go all over the carpet.

Extremely aggravating doesn't even begin to cut it. I mean, poop is gross enough, but relatively easy to clean. Not pee, especially on carpet. We're constantly battling it with enzymes, cleaner, and shampooing the carpet is pretty much an every other day thing now. And STILL they insist on bucking authority.

It's not like they have it rough. They have a full fenced-in backyard where they can go nuts any time they like to. But our bigger dog doesn't even want to go outside any longer. Most mornings when I'm the first one out of bed, I have to pick Bijou up and toss her outside (and I'm sure the neighbors enjoy watching my new Olympic event: dog-throwing in underwear).

Here's what's most frustrating: both of the dogs know what they're doing is wrong. How do I know this? Because they try and hide it from us. First of all, it's nearly impossible to catch them in the act, sneaky lil' varmints that they are. But the real damning evidence is that they try to hide it from us by secretly going  behind my living room chair or beneath the table where nobody usually thinks to look.

More than one person has told me they're trying to tell me something. Which isn't helpful. But on those insomnia-stricken nights, in the wee hours of the morning, I've given their would-be "message" a lot of thought. And there's only one obvious conclusion: dogs everywhere are secretly plotting to overthrow humanity.

Their sneaky side-eye glances to one another haven't gone unnoticed. And when I enter a room, they break apart suddenly from their deep, secret communication.

You don't have to be a brain surgeon to figure out one of their typical conversations (to illustrate the brutal, troublesome truth, I've chosen to reenact a sample dialogue using their dog names)...

"Say, Rowf-Ruff-Grrrrr-Umph-Barkity-Bark, when do you think we'll institute our secret plan to overthrow our loathsome human captors?"

"Soon, Yap-Yap-Ark-Yark-Yippity-Grrrrr-Oomph, soon. You must have patience, little one. We've already put our plan into action by defiling their domiciles. Now it's just a matter of waiting."

"But...but...Rowf-Ruff-Grrrrr-Umph-Barkity-Bark, I'm tired of waiting! For too long we've had to suffer stoopid, cutesy human slave names for us. And to be forced to go to the bathroom outside? It's barbaric!"

"I agree, Yap-Yap-Ark-Yark-Yippity-Grrrrr-Oomph. We've been held down by The Man for centuries, but soon enough there will be an uprising. Soon we will reclaim our ability to walk upright on our back two legs. And soon we'll be able to put pants back on and take back some of the dignity that humans have tried to breed out of us."

"But...but...it's taking forever!

"What did I say about patience, Yap-Yap-Ark-Yark-Yippity-Grrrrr-Oomph? As soon as our great overlord, Snippy-Yip-Ruff-Ruff-Aroooo-Garooo-Garumph, calls for us to rise above our human shackles, then we'll move. In the not too distant future, we'll kick humans out into the yard to potty, no matter the weather!"

"I'm so excited! Can I put the Cone of Doom and a shock collar on the fat one?"

"Of course, Yap-Yap-Ark-Yark-Yippity-Grrrrr-Oomph!" (Mutual dog laughter all around).

THIS is one of the many things that keeps me up at night.

While we're talking about everything going to the dogs, I may as well plug my novel, Corporate Wolf, where the protagonist is a hairy beast. That's right, it's the only bloody, scary, funny, mysterious, corporate business satire, werewolf book ever to come out of Kansas! (Of course the competition isn't very stiff...) But check it out here!

Curse of the Singing Cowboys

Growing up, I was aware my dad loved cowboys. I'm not talking the kiddy-type infatuation that most boys have but get over it by adulthood. No, I'm talking the full-fledged,  man-loving (but in a "good" way, so put those pitchforks down, "right-wing-siders"), he-man sorta adoration, usually reserved for baseball players, war heroes and favorite presidents (an oxymoron?). I mean, back in the day (in ancient times when there were only three channels to watch), my dad would seek out any western on TV he could find. Now THAT'S dedication.

In fact, I have a vague recollection that my first Halloween costume was as a cowboy. The following year, I was a bunny. Go figure. To this day, I think that was my mom being bold and putting her stamp of disapproval on everything cowboy. Revenge, one might say, with me being used as the hapless weapon.

For you see, cowboys drove my mom crazy. If she even heard  a single gunshot zinging off an outhouse emanating from the TV, she'd be outta there like a rocket.

One day, lil' Stuie asked Mom, "Mommy, why do you hate cowboys?"

Her face drew tighter than if she'd bitten into a lemon. "Mercy! They're all the same thing. Bang, bang, bang, dusty, dust, dirt, boring." She paused, lost in thought. With a look of distaste, she dredged up what must've been a painful memory for her. "The first movie Poppa took me to when we were dating was a singing cowboy one." Her amazing eyeroll looked as if she'd become suddenly possessed, head swaying back and forth. "MERCY!"

Singing cowboys, I pondered. That was a new one on me. I'd never heard of such a thing and it was clear my mom was done with the topic. But it was nearly impossible for me to correlate the brave sheriff of Palooka, Missouri, singing to the evil Jonzy brothers as they shot up his town.

Later I asked my dad about singing cowboys. He licked his lips (a sure sign it was a topic he adored and was ready to pontificate about) and said, "Those are my favorite, son! There's Roy Rogers, Dale Evans, and of course, Roy's loyal, brave horse, Trigger. But your mom doesn't care for them." He chuckled. "Say! Would you like to see one the next time one's on?"

"Sure!" As my dad's eyes lit over my enthusiasm, I began to wonder if I'd just made a big mistake.

Well...I did. 

Sure enough, about two weeks later on a Saturday afternoon, Dad and I sat down in front of the gigantuan black and white monster TV box and prepared for singing cowboys to shoot it out.

In my youthful naiveté, I felt like I'd discovered a heretofore unknown relic, a clue to a mysterious past newly uncovered and passed down from our ancestors. What other hidden film genres awaited discovery for me, I wondered. Tap-dancing ninjas? Crooning monsters?

The credits unrolled over a corny song. Okay, I thought, just the credits, it's about to get good.

But it never did.

Roy Rogers sat astride Trigger, strumming a guitar and singing in a high-pitched voice that hurt my tooth cavity. He wore a frilly, fringe-laden outfit that would've made Liberace jealous.

THIS is our hero? I pondered. My dad grinned ear-to-ear during the entire film. And I didn't want to rain on his parade so I sat stoned faced throughout the nightmare unfolding before my eyes. Very little gunplay. But lotsa--I mean, LOTSA--sissy singing and Vegassy outfits. It soon became clear that Roy was more interested in singing love ballads to his horse than shootin' up bad guys, keepin' the town clean of ne'er-do-wells, and even courtin' Ms. Evans.

That day, my dad pretty much ruined westerns for me. Since then the only westerns I've liked are of the spaghetti variety (besides having tons of style, everyone always looks grungy, filthy, sweaty, and stinky the way people in the Old West were meant to be! And not a single sissy, namby-pamby, Cher wardrobe-raiding, clean-cut, fake cowboy in sight!).

I never did tell my dad that I absolutely hated Roy Rogers. I saw how much it meant to the "kid" inside of him, so like a good "parent," I encouraged that hobby of his. But I always had an excuse (predominately homework, something that couldn't be disputed) as to why I couldn't watch the upcoming matinee with him.

I've not written any westerns, but I suppose my historical fiction ghost tale, Ghosts of Gannaway, comes the closest. At least all of the townspeople of a downtrodden depression-era mining town in Kansas are pretty dirty and living in squalor. Except, of course, for the evil rich jackals up in their ivory mansion (sound familiar?). Heavily researched (the book broke me on ever wanting to do research again), it's a perfect ghost tale to curl up with on these windy, chilly fall nights. Get it here!

The Old Round-About

My pal (since grade school!) and I like to frequent the neighborhood brewery. It's never too crowded, the beer is good, and the bartenders know our name (like Cheers!).

There's a crew of regulars there every Saturday we go, and if we don't know them by name, we secretly give them nick-names (you know, just like in grade school): Slim, The Geek Squad (always playing Dungeons and Dragons) and my personal favorite, Dahmer.

"Dahmer" is particularly scary. Every time he's there, he's sporting a skin tight t-shirt (with what looks like blood stains), is always by himself (probably because by the looks of it, he hasn't washed his hair in over a month), sits alone, muttering, looking at his reflection in the front mirror, undoubtedly looking for his next victim.

But the regular I want to talk about is a self-proclaimed witch who has been a thorn in Doug's side for some time. (We'll call her "Griselda" because if I used her real name, she might hex me). She lives on Doug's street and I quickly figured out they'd been going at it for a while.

One Saturday, she approached Doug and started bragging about how she was responsible for the new speed bump on their street. Of course Doug hates the speed bump, so they argued about it (as "frienemies")at great length.

Another time she called Doug "feral" and yelled at him to wear his damn motorcycle helmet. Once, while sitting at the bar, Doug pompously stated, "The kitchen is my wife's and the rest of the house is mine." Behind the bar (and I'm not sure why she's given privileges to get her own beer; maybe she has the employees under her thrall), Griselda turned around, shaking her head and said "There's SOOOO much wrong with everything you just said." (On this point I had to agree with the witch.)

But, by far, their biggest point of contention is the old roundabout. Everyone who lives on that street were asked if they would support a roundabout (which is ridiculously pointless and would do nothing but back cars up on their quiet, low-traffic, suburban street). Naturally Griselda was all for it. And just like their cat and dog relationship, Doug hated the idea and actually campaigned against it by telling all neighbors to just say "NO."

Flash forward to two Saturdays later...At the brewery Griselda approached Doug again and immediately they renewed the ol' roundabout argument. 

After 20 minutes, I'd had enough of their pointless bickering (like our two opposing political parties trying to change each others' minds).

Exhausted, I finally said, "Are you two STILL going around about about the roundabout?"

Relieved the witch started laughing, I heaved a sigh of relief. And as of now, I STILL haven't been turned into a frog.

Boys and girls, it's probably not a sound idea to piss off a witch.

While on the topic of witches, I'd be shamefully negligent if I didn't hype up my book trilogy, Tex, The Witch Boy. It's got everything: thrills, chills, spills,  mystery, suspense, bullying, witchcraft, romance, humor, horror, fried chicken, and the woes of high school. Get 'em here!