The Great Thanksgiving Dog Search Party of 2025

Ah yes...The Great Thanksgiving Dog Search Party of 2025! I remember it like it was last week. (Well, since it was last week, I'd be in trouble if I couldn't remember it...)

There was a Fall nip in the air, a taste of the biting bitter coldness of Winter to come; leaves of gold, yellow, and brown still stood knee-high in our yard (much to the chagrin of our neighbors); and our house was filled with a multitude of delectable odors as my wife kept kicking me out of our tiny kitchen. It could only mean it was Thanksgiving.

These days, most of us have extended families, which means family members work around schedules, trying to accommodate everyone. So the first of several of our Thanksgivings was to take place on Tuesday, the 25th. My wife came up with a great idea to relieve family of the typical Thanksgiving spread: she sent out a survey asking everyone what their two fave foods were. This resulted in lasagna sitting next to fried chicken, deviled eggs coinciding peacefully with angel food cake, barbeque meat vying for room against the mashed taters, etc. (Diet, what diet? We're STILL working on leftovers.)

On Monday, my brother and sister-in-laws traveled up from Oklahoma City with their two Labrador mixes riding comfortably in the back of their van. Monday night we all gathered at our house, talking about a multitude of things including how we all agreed that in movies, people in jeopardy was no big thing; but put a dog in peril and we're all emotionally invested.  DUM-Dum-Duhhhhhhh....(oooh, real-life foreshadowing!).

Tuesday morning, our family members were to leave their dog-friendly air B&B (just blocks away from us) and join us for brunch. Then we got the text from my brother-in-law: We'll be over as soon as I find Chuck and Tilly because they escaped out of the yard.

Chuck, the naughty agent provocateur who led his sister astray.

Knowing the neighborhood better than my out-of-town bro-in-law, I joined the search, my mother-in-law riding shotgun. Up and down the mean streets of suburban Kansas we crawled (pissing off cars behind us), looking for two missing Labs. Being a nice day, there were tons of people out walking, predominantly dog-walkers. Everyone was very polite, but the dog-walkers really jumped to attention. Several times, it was suggested that we look on the local neighbors Facebook page. I attempted to get on, but was stymied by questions and a waiting period while the powers-that-be determined if I was worthy of joining.

By this time, my wife put cooking on hold and joined the search party, so there were four of us out looking, while my sister-in-law acted as the hub headquarters, calling local shelters and vets. Several times we realized we were duplicating efforts as people would say, "oh yeah, we just talked to someone else about your dogs." And every time they said they'd keep an eye out.

But then it dawned on us: how would they get in contact with us? So, my mother-in-law searched for paper, anything she could find in the car, and began tearing off bits and writing phone numbers, dog names, etc. to hand out to people. Sometimes the recipients looked at the proffered piece of napkin or cardboard box with hesitation, but most accepted it willingly.

My mother-in-law (probably the friendliest person in America) was given the task of jumping out and approaching people at parks to tell our story (I figured people would be less afraid of her than me). She made many, many friends along the way, explaining our situation (probably more details than necessary) as I grew more stressed; I could feel time ticking away like a countdown to a bomb. Tensions were high as we continued the search.

Finally, one woman walking two dogs, suggested we get on the neighborhood Facebook page again. I told her we couldn't and she said, "hold on" and checked her phone for us. Seconds later, she said, "Are these your dogs?" 

Now, neither mom-in-law nor I were familiar enough with the dogs to make a definitive identification so we discussed dog colorings, ears and appearance in the car while the good Samaritan kept holding her phone toward us.

Finally, my mother-in-law said, "That's them!" Feeling triumphant, we had a high-five moment while the woman attempted to contact the person who had captured the dogs. The person wasn't immediately responding, but it was just a matter of waiting . Fully confident, I contacted family members and told them "we found your dogs!"

Then the good Samaritan flagged us down again. "Sorry," she said, "I didn't read the full post. It's just one of your dogs. The person who caught one, almost caught the other...but she escaped."

Disheartened, I called back the relatives and told them the semi-bad news.

The search continued. Meanwhile the person who had Chuck contacted my bro-in-law and he went to retrieve him. One down, one to go.

Briefly I came home, got on the computer, and tried to get on the Facebook page. I took the survey and waited. Then Mom and I went out again, this time broadening our search area. On occasion, we'd cross paths with someone else in our search party, and go the opposite direction. Mom was asking everyone in sight, handing out our little information napkins, cardboard, whatever.

Taking a quick break for lunch, refueling, we gobbled and went back on the hunt again. Somewhere along the way, I traded out my mom-in-law for brother-in-law, where we were finally able to compare crucial information. Chuck had been nabbed at a local Starbucks, so that gave us a bit further circumference to search.

As I had grown up in the neighborhood, I started having flashbacks as to when my dogs ran away. One came home of his own volition: we just heard him enter the open garage and begin to eat his dinner. Another we found down in a ritzy golf course romping with another dog. Finally, the third didn't have such a happy ending: he had been hit by a car on the extremely busy (pseudo highway) Shawnee Mission Parkway. Which was right next to the Starbucks where Tilly had last been spotted. (Gulp!)

We kept driving around at a snail's pace, my bro-in-law occasionally yelling "Tilly" out the window and stopping every person who didn't look like a serial killer. I took a quick break and went home to check my neighborhood Facebook page status. I was in! I wrote a veritable novel about Tilly and her peoples' situation (TOO much info, I'm sure) and let the magic of Facebook do it's job. We got over 600 responses! Alas, they were all of the "sad face emoji" or prayers or good luck variety. Tilly had not been found.

Meanwhile, an hour away (and while at work), my daughter joined the search by calling every shelter and animal control in surrounding counties. Eventually, my nephew joined as well. I haven't seen this big a city wide "manhunt" since...well...ever.

At 5:30 or so, we decided it was futile to continually drive around, our thoughts being that someone had picked her up and hadn't reported her yet. (OR...someone decided to keep her.) But we were exhausted, out of ideas, and we had the entire Kansas City metro area on red hot alert (some of the people we talked to, were getting kind of sick of our double-alerting).

Meanwhile, bolstered by the power of social media, I put the same sob story on about eight sites (some of them questionable; one was like "Dog, The  Bounty Hunter {although it should probably be "Man, The Dog Hunter}," consisting of a couple of guys who would suit up and go all gung-ho when there was a dog sighting). 

Okay...truthfully I couldn't believe the outpouring of support we were receiving. One woman graciously went out and searched for the dogs on her own before enlisting her daughter in the cause, too. I sincerely hadn't seen or felt a sense of community like this since eleven years ago when an orange idiot decided to irrevocably divide our country and erode our democracy. It restored my faith in humanity...everyone uniting over a missing dog (kinda ironic, yes?).

But still no word on Tilly.

At 2:30 in the morning I couldn't sleep, visions of the worst case scenarios running through my head. I got on the computer, searching police reports and the websites for any news.

The next day was pretty grim, but we did our best to soldier through our early Thanksgiving over food and games. Still, Tilly's shadow loomed over us. Time and time again, I'd anthropomorphize (an annoying habit of mine, just ask my wife) Tilly's thoughts: I'm all alone, cold, have no idea where the hell I am, how dare my people do this to me!

Begrudgingly, Tilly's people left (minus Tilly) on their 4-1/2 hour trip home.

I'd pretty much given up all hope at this point.

Then at 5:45, my bro-in-law calls:

"Paul," I said, "what's up?"

"Tilly's been found."

Blink. Think. Clear out cobwebs. Blink again. "What?"

"She's at the Fairway Animal Hospital."

My mind skyrocketed over the Kansas City area with amazement. "Okay, is she hurt? How'd she get there? Wait! What time do they close? I'm sure they're not open on Thanksgiving! Crap! I gotta go! I'll send pics!"

On my way to the door, I grabbed my nephew (because Tilly knows him best), and my wife decided to drive. A race against time, we sped through our local neighborhoods (I'm sure a cop would escort us if he knew it was all about a dog, dogs being the great uniter and all), ignored speed-bumps, and bounced our way to the hospital with seconds to spare.

"There she is," said my nephew as we walked along the large front window. Tilly was surrounded by two doting employees and another couple.

"Hi Tilly! Where have you BEEN?" All of us were so relieved and happy to see her that all seemed forgiven. (But she'd better not ever do it again!)

The young couple standing nearby were introduced as the people who brought her in. After slobbering all over them, we got the skinny: Tilly was found in Fairway (which we'd all driven through numerous times) hunkered down behind this couples' air conditioner unit. Their other dogs were going nuts, barking up a storm, and they discovered Tilly, scared and nervous. Her tags were missing, but they took her to the hospital where they scanned her embedded chip and contacted Tilly's owner.

Everything was right with the world! Huzzah! Tilly's people were overjoyed to see video and photos and the next day, my mom-in-law would take Tilly back to Oklahoma to reunite with "mom and dad."

REUNITED! (And it feeeeeels so good...)

I got on all my websites and updated my story that Tilly had been found, so everyone could call off the (*ahem*) dogs.

In a fascinating coda to the tale (tail?), a woman responded: "That nice couple who found Tilly is my daughter and her husband. Ever since she graduated from college, she's saved numerous dogs. A while back, they had found another runaway dog in the exact same spot where Tilly was found. Dogs must feel something so strong that they know they'll be safe with my daughter and attracted to her house."

Wow. Cue the Twilight Zone theme...

Anyway, happy ending, normal is good, and I could finally relax. Whew. Then I started to wonder: maybe we could fix our country if we got Trump a dog. Just sayin'...

Okay, I'm gonna take this opportunity to pimp my book Secret Society (the first in the Killers Incorporated trilogy). Yeah, sure, it's a darkly comic thriller series about a secret cabal of serial killers working for an  evil nationwide conglomerate, bla, bla, bla. But a dog plays a crucial part in the story, humanizing (I hope!) one of the killers. (And don't worry, the dog has a happy ending.) Check it out here.

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!

Monster Cat On The Loose!

By now, you guys know I'm a dog-lover. It's not that I hate cats...I'm just allergic to them.

Okay, that's not entirely true. Well, it is about my being allergic to them. If you put a cat around me and I happen to touch near my eye, it's all over. I turn into a crying, sneezing, wheezing pink-eyed mess.

But back to dogs. Dogs are fiercely loyal, full of character, funny, loving, doting, sloppy, playful, and depend entirely on humans to take care of them. It's a nice feeling.

Cats are...cats. They're quiet, sneaky, scary, boring, and when they feel like it, they'll bite or claw you for no reason. Just for the fun of it, I suppose. They're like goldfish. Only meaner. And did I mention I'm highly allergic to them?

So, the other day, I was tasked with going to this strange "feed and seed" store in the middle of the city to get dog food. After I figured out how to enter the place (it's like an Escape Room), the first thing I noticed were three cats running across my path.

Uh-oh.

The old guy asks how can he help me. I felt like saying by getting those damn cats away from me. Instead, I say, "Just picking up some dog food." Quickly, I scuttled toward the dog food, hefted a big-ass bag up and hoped to get out of there before I turned into a wet, soppy, crying mess.

But the old guy behind the counter had a different idea. "Ah! You're getting the bison!"

"Yeah. Nothing but the most expensive for our dogs, I guess," I said, while eyeballing what seemed like a dozen cats twisting and scampering around me.

The old guy wasn't put off by that. Must've been a slow day for him. "Well, golly...it's good stuff, though."

"I guess," I said. "But I've never tried it."

The ancient clerk looks at me. Blinks. Finally guffaws and slaps his knee. Meanwhile, one particularly clingy kitty was rubbing up against my legs. I could feel my eyes starting to water.

"That's a good one, yep. Had me going for a while. Yessir...'never tried it.' Heh." Suddenly he drops down behind the counter.

I'm wondering if I should call 911.

Like an ancient jack-in-the-box, he springs up with a scrawny mean-looking cat in his arms. And thrusts it toward me. "Here's my bison! What do you make of this mean fellow?"

Instinctively, I jumped back. "Oh...he's, um...thanks!" I grabbed the dog food and raced out of the store (once I found the exit).

Next time I go there, I'm wearing a mask, protective eyewear and a Hazmat suit. I swan...

Speaking of things that are furry and not so adorable, check out my book, Corporate Wolf. It's the only werewolf, horror, murder mystery, dark comedy, corporate satire out there!

Ooooooh, That Smell!

I'm not talking about that crappy arena rock song from Lynyrd Skynyrd (You old-timers remember them? From back in the  70's when all music was crappy?) when I say "Oooooooh, that smell!"

Nope, I'm talking about our oldest dog, Bijou. Monday morning I let her outside to do her stuff and when she gets back inside she pops up next to me on the love seat. And I get a good whiff of her.

"Good God!"

I've never smelled anything like it. But then that wasn't quite true. I knew the offending odor from somewhere before, but I couldn't quite place my finger on it. But my nose sure did. Like a nightmarish, musky, rotting smell, the odor permeated the room, the house, my shirt, and permanently scarred my olfactory system for life.

I stood up and ran from the room, hoping she'd follow me. She did. Then I jumped back into the TV room, shutting the dog gate behind me. Still that smell followed me around like a heat-seeking missile.

I couldn't escape it. Soon I resorted to kicking her out in the backyard (along with her little brother). I figured a good long stay outdoors might diminish the stink. After about at hour I went outside. Even in the open air, her odor assaulted me.

I noticed a side of her coat was rough, so she'd rolled in something, God only knows what. Sneakily, I approached her slowly with the hose. But once she saw the burbling water, she ran away. After playing tag for a while, I finally gave up.

Back inside, I finally came upon a solution. A solution that wise men resort to as their last ditch effort. I texted my wife. "When you get home, you need to give Bijou a bath. You'll see." (She excels at this job, something I'm not well-equipped for.)

So my wife threw her in the tub. After a while, I'm cooking dinner, and she calls out, "Wow. She still stinks. Back in the tub with her."

But she still reeked, even after her second bath. Just not as badly. All night long she kept "eye-begging" to hop up into my lap. Sadly, I dejected those puppy dog eyes.

That night, about 4:30 in the morning, I woke up with a real eureka moment. I finally recognized the odiferous odor: dead animal carcass.

Okay, now on the "Walking Dead," I understand the survivors' need to wear human entrails on their body to be able to move amongst the zombies, but why in the world would a dog think it a grand idea to roll around in a dead critters' remains? Claiming their territory? Geeze, next time just plant a flag or something.

Speaking of furry, smelly varmints, have you heard the one about the business corporation that has a werewolf amongst the employees? No? Well, then, by skippy, you've got to read my darkly comical, satirical, horror, mystery, thriller Corporate Wolf available right here!

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!

If Only I Had a Third Eyelid

Last week there was a huge food mishap in our house. No, for once it wasn't my doing. Our senior dog happened to be lollygagging around our largest dog while she was eating. Things didn't go well. She attacked the elderly pup (shades of when a white trash drunk young woman tried to beat me up in a Holiday Inn!). By the time I broke it up, the damage had been done.

Mr. Loomis had a chest wound, but worse, his eye was nearly completely red.  Being a responsible adult and pet owner, I did the only mature, responsible thing that was needed: I panicked.

I'd never seen a dog's eye wound like that before. I called our doggy thousand dollar ophthalmologist (yes, Virginia, there IS such a thing), but she was booked solid. I called our regular vet, but they were full up as well.

Then I did the next responsible thing and called my out-of-town wife. "Oh my God, dear, there's blood everywhere! Literally gushing from his eye!"

Silence. Then, "Okay, how bad is it, really?"

"Um, his eye's mostly red."

"He needs to be seen," she said.

So, I knew what I had to do. A dreaded trip to the million dollar doggy E.R. (again, Virginia, duh, they exist. What rock have you been hiding under?), where patience and Big Bills are rarely rewarded.

The assistant who checked me in said, "Wait...what's your wife's name?"

I told her.

"I KNOW Mr. Loomis," she shouted exuberantly. "I used to work at your thousand dollar doggy ophthalmologist. Mr. Loomis was our patient!"

It's a small doggy world, it turns out. Too bad the doggy bills aren't so small.

Anyway, she led me back to the room and I had hoped that her goodwill with Mr. Loomis would speed things up a bit. But Mr. Loomis and I waited. And waited. And waited. Waited until my phone died. Then I left.

The next morning I was able to see the thousand dollar doggy ophthalmologist. 

She said, "The good news is it looks like his third eyelid is doing its job."

"Wait...what?" I looked carefully into Mr. Loomis' blood-filled eye. "Is...is...my dog a...mutant? I've never even HEARD of a third eyelid!"

The doctor rolled her (presumably double-lidded) eyes and said, "We humans are the oddball. We're the only mammals that don't have a third eyelid."

Whoa! Freaky!

So I nodded and pretended I wasn't nearly as dumb as I actually am. But when we got home, I looked up the third eyelid via my assistant, Ms. Google.

"The third eyelid is located in the inner corner of the eye and sweeps across the eye in a horizontal direction when the eyeball retracts during a blink. This protects the eye, distributes tears, and helps maintain vision."

Where was I when this was being taught in school? (Oh, yeah, probably skipping class and smoking weed and hanging out in the parking lot. I can admit this now since both of my parents have passed away.)

But it got me thinking. So...do dogs actually have SIX eyelids? When don't they refer to them as the third and sixth eyelid?

And why can't humans have the third eyelid? It'd probably help with my perpetually weeping eyes. It could be, like, my superpower.

"There's no need to fear!" I'd shout triumphantly with chest out and hands on hips. "My special third eyelid will take out the evildoer!"

"Oh, thank you, Third Eyelid Man," an adoring, hot blonde bystander would say.

Speaking of nice dreams, well...I don't really write about "nice" dreams. Only bad dreams. Like in my horror-filled, dark humor-laced short story collection Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. (Yes, Virginia, I know it's a terrible tie-in, but I needed some kinda segue to pimp my books. Now shut your pie-hole! Kids today!)

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!

The Dog That Would Not Be Groomed

Heed my true tale of canine terror, dear reader, because it could happen to YOU.

Take Mr. Loomis. Cute lil' guy, right? WRONG! Beneath that seemingly cute and friendly-looking exterior lurks the son of Satan himself.

Oh sure, he's sweet to us, his owners, but Mr. Loomis has the ability to strike fear and anxiety into the hearts of pet groomers everywhere, reducing grown professionals to tears of trauma.

We have three dogs in our "pack," and naturally, the one with the fastest growing hair is Mr. Loomis, who's in need of at least monthly haircuts. However, try telling that to the dog. He absolutely hates having hair trimmed off his face and will let the groomers know it.

The first time we recognized the problem is when a new groomer called us and said, "Uh, yeah, we're having difficulty with Loomis."

"Difficulty?" My wife said. "What kind of difficulty?"

"He won't let us get near his face. He keeps biting us and trying to get away and going to the bathroom all over the place."

When we picked him up, they told us there wouldn't be any charge. Small wonder, because he looked like a Dr. Seuss character with a hairy face and shaved body. (Furthermore, we soon found out that he'd torn out his dew claw in the cage they stuffed him in, so he was super pissed and in pain. We thought surely that's the reason he didn't want those barbarians near his face.)

By now Loomis was beginning to resemble a Wookie, so we found another groomer. Upon picking him up, they told us he was no problem at all. But they hadn't touched his face. Reading between the lines: they couldn't get near his face.

Next! We found this sorta hippy woman who refused to work on a computer, thus rendering her business practices frazzled and forgetful. But, soon it appeared she had developed a rapport with our little devil on four legs and knew how to treat him. Until one day when she called me and said, "I can't take Mr. Loomis any longer. He just has too much power over me."

Huh. I wasn't really certain how this little dog could wield such power over a grown woman, but hey, we began to take it in stride. Getting fired by our dog groomers was becoming second nature.

So, my wife found a dog grooming "school" which taught single mothers how to bathe and trim dogs. Cool idea, I thought. Loomis did, too. At least at first.

However, yesterday when I picked him up, the woman said they can't shave his face any longer. "He doesn't like it," she said.

With a heavy heart, a heavier sigh, and the little trouble-making canine under my arm, I left. Fired again.

Now, I have a certain affinity with Mr. Loomis. True, I've never tried to bite my barber (then again, maybe I would now if I had any hair), but we're both cranky old men who get crankier with each ensuing year and ache and pain. So I can't be too mad at the lil' fella. Besides...no one really knows what goes on behind closed doors and we're only hearing the human side of the story. Could be Loomis has legitimate gripes with these groomers (i.e., a torn dew claw).

But in the meantime, the hunt goes on for a groomer who'll prove to be a match for our tiny terror. Anybody want a job?

Speaking of terrifying creatures, pity poor Shawn Biltmore. On his corporate retreat, he's bitten by a werewolf. And believe it or not, there's something even more sinister going on at his mind-numbing, soul-destroying corporate job. Read all the thrills, chills, spills, and dark humor in Corporate Wolf.

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!

Welcome to the Dog Pack

When I woke up that fateful morning, I had no idea we'd have a dog pack by the end of the day.

Let's jump into the Way-Back Machine for a minute. Several years back, my wife floated the idea of a new dog. I dragged my feet because...well, because I truly hate putting dogs to sleep when it's their time (which is kinda a dumb thing to write, since I doubt there's a huge contingent out there who enjoy putting dogs down. But...considering the nature of our world right now, you never know. But I digress.)

Long story, short: we ended up adopting two dogs because they were "bonded." That, of course, was Bijou and Mr. Loomis (which I've written about before). One is a Lhasa Apso, the other an inexplicable blending of Saint Bernard, Australian Cattle Shepherd, and about a dozen other species (Bijou had very randy parents!). But the dog we'd always wanted was a Cavalier King Charles. Alas, they're very hard to come by unless you want to shell out two grand (hello, Bijou and Mr. Loomis! Plus, adopting is the way to go.).

Mr. Loomis wondering what fresh hell we've brought into his home.

Skip ahead several years...my wife found a mix of a Cavalier King Charles and a Shih Tzu (we think) up for adoption, a puppy of one year. We jumped on it and the woman called us back immediately. She said, "You were the first interested people I was able to get ahold of."

Ta-dahhhhhh! Two days later, we set off in a very windy rain storm for a small town in Missouri about 2-1/2 hours away with our two O.G. dogs in tow for the big meet 'n greet.

When we finally--finally!--found the woman's house (a treacherous road full of hills and winds and heart-stopping gasps {at least from me riding shotgun}, the four of us entered into the Wild Kingdom.

A small house, it was packed to the rafters with animals of all sorts. An entire wall was jam-packed with cages of birds unleashing a maddening cacophony of tweets, squawks, and caws. A snake slithered around the inside of an aquarium. Somewhere, a cat rumbled his distaste for our intrusion. The woman went on to tell us about the rats she'd adopted (rats, for God's sake, rats!). Mercifully, they were sequestered in the basement. Bijou growled at everything. Mr. Loomis wandered around smelling various items and animals. And in the midst of all this madness, our new puppy ran scattershot, barking, wagging his tail, and avoiding the strange new quartet of people and dogs.

Things happened fast. Before I knew it, we were headed home with three dogs in the back seat, the new guy in the middle. (Side note: Of course we got lost on the long and winding roads {the convenience guy wasn't much help: "No problem. Hang a left at the church, go a spell, turn right at Fred's barn, go all the way outta town, then about a jot past that..."}, thus rendering our trip into three hours plus.) And what a journey it was. Our two O.G. dogs didn't know what to make of their new fellow traveler. Growls were exchanged, a few snips, uncertainty and no sleep whatsoever for all three wary dogs. By the time, we made it home, we were travelling in a rather pungent odor of poop.

Bijou ready for normalcy to return.

I'm writing this on the third day of our new dog pack. Gone are the mornings of ever hoping to sleep in again. Little time do I have to get anything done, for I'm wrangling dogs 24-7. Also, while I'd always wanted a little lap dog (Mr. Loomis was supposed to fill that role, but made it clear early on, he is above lapdom, while Bijou--although much too big--dearly wants that role.), the new guy has to be in my lap 24-7. This makes taking the trash out rather difficult.

And the accidents, oy, the accidents! We're going through bottles and bottles of enzyme spray keeping on top of it.

As for the dynamic between the dog pack? It's been rather tricky. Mr. Loomis--a cranky old veteran of 15 years (a dog after my cranky old heart)--chooses to ignore the new guy. Until he intrudes on his territory, then things turn snappish. And Bijou will not tolerate the little fellow coming close while he's getting attention from my wife or me. 

Today seems a little better. Bijou is finally playing with the new addition, although the little guy was terrified at first to reciprocate with the much larger dog. But today seems encouraging. Still gotta work on Mr. Loomis, but I doubt the old man will come around. Maybe with time. But, like me, he has a low tolerance level for impertinent young whippersnappers.

The new pup's name was originally Bailey. But we're working on changing it to...Biscuit. Behold, Prince Biscuit, newest member of our unholy dog pack!

Speaking of wild animals and packs, there are no dogs, but a slew of werewolves running rampant in my darkly comic horror novel, Corporate Wolf. Hey! It's just another day at the office! Check it out here.

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.