Kids and Their Marshmallow Treats

I'm so embarrassed.We switched dog-food brands this week. By which I mean we bought a new type of food for the dogs, not that Cara and I eat dog food and switched.

The new brand came highly recommended by the super helpful woman at the store (you know the type, she wouldn’t stop recommending things ten minutes after I’d made up my mind). She said her own dog loved it. It had freeze dried bits of RAW food. That sounded like something a dog would eat. (That and chicken, chocolate, pretzels, corn chips, cheese, peanut butter, Kleenex, ice cream, beef. But thankfully not poop. Or carrots.)

Things seemed promising when I brought the bag home as Lucy practically humped the thing. And if you know anything about our dogs, Sylvie is the one who likes to hump. (Sylvie is also the one who just plows through a bowl of food).

Then we served the food. And last night noticed Lucy making a bit of a mess. Normally, Lucy takes one piece of food out of the bowl and walks to some other apartment to chew up that one morsel. A very frugal and future-thinking dog, sometimes she will hide a morsel in a safe spot–you never know when zombies will strike your parents. You can see how Lucy eats in this video called How Lucy Eats.

But last night, she was making a pile right beside the bowl. And it seemed mostly like a pile of rejects, though every once in a while she’d return to the bits on the floor, give them a sniffing and then maybe eat one of them.

Then it occurred to me: She’s pulling a Lucky Charms!

She’s just going through the bowl and eating up the good stuff and tossing aside the rest. Crazy damn dog.

They’re All Going to Laugh at You

It’s happened to all of us. You’re out and about, minding your own business and you see or hear someone laughing. For a split second, you think, “That person is laughing at me.” Your mind whisks you back to high school, to a time when you were awkward and in need of validation and so overcome by insecurities that the only thing you were secure in was the knowledge that someone, somewhere was talking about you.

And then your adult self points out the foolishness of such thinking. And the ego. It would take a teenager –or a narcissist–to actually believe that someone was always talking about him, wouldn’t it?

But yesterday, I swear the woman on the bike, wearing sunglasses and standing on the corner of Union and Seventh Ave in Park Slope. I would have bet my life on it. I looked briefly. Then turned away. Then turned back. And yes, she was still laughing. In my general direction. From all the way across the street. “What the hell,” I thought. “She can’t actually be laughing at me.”

Then she said, “Oh my God. Look at Ken.”

Well, then.

Turns out it was my friend Maryann, who I hadn’t seen since last year. She WAS laughing. And pointing. And taking photos. This is what she was laughing at.
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The Poodle Problem

How did this happen?
When the man sang that some enchanted evening, you will see a stranger across a crowded room, he didn’t mention anything about a couple of yappy lap dogs. But on a July night at Grant Street Dance Hall in Lafayette, Louisiana, I was only in town for two more days and wasn’t exactly thinking about the future consequences of current actions. All I knew was that I was talking to this curly-haired blonde who I’d noticed an hour or so earlier — and I hadn’t lost her attention yet.

I already knew her name was Cara, that we had a couple of mutual acquaintances, that she’d dropped a ton of money to go to the Super Bowl earlier in the year and was also a rabid LSU fan. Those things, along with her — how do the French put this, “smoking hotness” — were more than enough to drown out any alarm bells that might have gone off when she whipped out the iPhone and started showing me photos of her “babies,” a couple of small poodles. Sure they were cute, boy they were fascinating, yeah I love dogs, yadda yadda yadda.

Of course, I paid attention — enough, at least, to notice that there was a black one and a white one and that sometimes they wore clothes. But, like I said, in town for a couple of days. If I was lucky, we’d make out and then we’d never see each other again, so a couple of high-maintenance yipsters were of no great concern.
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Anyone Know a Good Cat-Poisoner in Park Slope?

Oh. Yeah. Ooohh. Uh, what time is it?Okay. I’m joking. Obviously. It upsets me–yes, now I’m the one upset–that I even have to write that I’m joking about this. My friends and family get this, I’m sure. And people with a sense of humor. But there are some people out there who can somehow decipher these long lists of words we call sentences yet can’t, for the life of them, detect the overall context of a paragraph. One of those idiots might stumble across this post. Of course, it doesn’t help my case that those sorts of idiots are the most easily offended and now I’ve not only set them off by asking for a cat-poisoner, but I’ve insulted them as well.

See what the cats have driven me to!
Continue reading “Anyone Know a Good Cat-Poisoner in Park Slope?”

A Puggle and His Poop

I may have to reconsider my mostly fond feelings about dogs. Yesterday, while sitting in the Starbucks on the corner of Court and Dean, a fellow patron tied up her Puggle to the bench and came inside to get a coffee. There was a bit of a line, so the little guy had to wait out in the cold longer than expected. He, being the nervous sort, began to yip. When master didn’t come running, he yipped a little more, then — being the nervous sort — deposited about five or six logs on the sidewalk while moving. Then — and here’s where you may want to avert your eyes — he proceeded to gobble up every last bit of it.  If that’s not gross enough, consider that the owner was completely unaware of it and that at some point later in the day she probably let that dog lick her face.