Dachshund Chronicles:  Chapter 31 The L.A.S.E.R. Room

Dachshund Chronicles: Chapter 31 The L.A.S.E.R. Room

Dachshund Chronicles:  Chapter 31 The L.A.S.E.R. Room

“Did you ever find out what in the world Harley’s building over at her Brownstone?” Roper asked Harry.

He was sitting behind his desk flipping through a catalog of fabric swatches the day after the party.

Harry nodded briskly. “Yes, Sir, I did. I went over there the other day as you asked, Sir. She took me into the basement addition she’s putting in to create enough space for her new bionic hippo, Sir. You met him yesterday at the adoption party, remember?”

“Oh yes,” Roper said. “I do remember. Unusual looking fellow, wasn’t he? But I thought she was getting a horse. I distinctly remember her telling me she was adopting a horse.”

“Well, Sir,” Harry began cautiously. “She referred to him as a water horse, but -”

Roper paled and reached convulsively for his ever-present glass of mole waters. “Water horse?” he whispered.

“Now, Sir,” Harry spoke quickly. “Sir, you remember we talked about this? A water horse is just a very snooty way of referring to a hippopotamus. Harley adopted a bionic hippopotamus, Sir. Not a water creature … completely,” Harry murmured the last bit so quietly that Roper couldn’t hear clearly.

“No water?” he asked.

“No, Sir, no water,” Harry answered blandly, not even a little bothered by the lie.

“Oh, well,” Roper said, considerably calmer. “That’s good. You had me scared there for a minute, Harry,” he chuckled. “I wouldn’t have put it past Harley to try and sneak in some sort of swimming hole or some other thing having to do with – well, you know …” he trailed off and took another sip of his drink.

“She thinks I overreact to danger, although I can’t imagine why,” he said confidentially. “I believe strongly, as you know, Harry, in being 110% prepared 110% of the time. And as I’ve said many, many times … danger is dangerous and it lurks in every corner.”

After another healthy sip of his drink, Roper continued, “Harley’s much too careless regarding matters of safety. Don’t you remember when she suggested pulling up the carpet in the streets at last month’s Council meeting? I mean, that would be terrible – cars speeding along over 4 miles per hour, careening around corners, screeching tires! And suppose there was an accident? Suppose you needed to get out of your car suddenly and had to step out on bare cement??” He shuddered dramatically. “Can you imagine anything more dangerous than cold paws on a hard surface, Harry?”

Harry shook his head solemnly. “No, Sir. Certainly not, Sir. Cold, hard surfaces are clearly listed in your Decree of Most Dangerous Things, Sir. I believe they fall in between venomous insects and hot beverages, Sir.”

“Exactly!” Roper cried. “Harley is known to be reckless and unconcerned with not only her own safety, but the safety of everyone else. You just cannot be too careful when it comes to safety. Am I right, Harry?”

“You’re certainly correct, Sir.”

“So. What is she building to “accommodate” her new bionic hippo horse thing?” Roper asked. “Some sort of cage with hay or one of those clear tube thingies people put around the ceiling?”

“You mean a hamster run, Sir?”

“Sure, sure, a hamster run,” Roper replied, absently flipping through fabric swatches again.

“Harry, do you think this color of red velvet would clash with my gleaming butterscotch pelt?” He pointed to a swatch.

“Uh, no Sir, definitely not, Sir. Red is a very good color for you, Sir. Powerful.” Harry glanced at the fabric sample then tried to steer the conversation back on track.

“Well, Sir, with regards to Harley’s addition …” Harry paused, thinking of the right way to word his response. “Well, Sir, it’s really more of a garden-like setting, Sir. No water, of course,” he lied quickly, “but very bright lights – she’s installed Solar Tubes that let sunlight come directly in while keeping air, weather, nature, and the like out, Sir.”

Roper looked up sharply from his swatches. “Bright lights?” he shrieked. “Solar Tubes?” He reached for the glass of mole waters. “What in the world is she thinking? We can’t have sunlight in the Under Dome! It might cause widespread panic and blindness! We could have some sort of skin dissolving epidemic on our paws!”

Harry tried to soothe Roper by saying, “Sir, I’ve been assured by both Harley and her engineers – one of your own Architectural Engineering Vole Squads, Sir – that no sunlight will ever leach out into Greater Under Dome, Sir. It will be completely contained within this …” Harry tried to recall the name Harley had used. “… this ‘Laser Facility’, as Harley calls it, Sir.”

That did not have the effect on Roper Harry had hoped. His eyes bugged out and he began to pant in fear. “Laser Facility???” He began to chant about deep shallow breaths and swoon in his chair.

Harry struggled to think. “Yes, Sir,” he said crisply. “A L.A.S.E.R. Facility – it stands for ‘Long Awaited Spot (for) Everyone (to) Relax’, Sir. It’s an acronym.”

“An acronym?” Roper asked tremulously. “What’s that, Harry? I thought she was getting a hippo!”

Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes and answered patiently, “An acronym is an abbreviation – a word that is formed from the initials or parts of other words. Like T.E.N., Sir. It stands for The Under Dome Emergency Network. Do you understand, Sir?”

“Oh.” Roper visibly relaxed. “I do understand. That was a very gentle and clear explanation, Harry. Thank you. So, if I’m hearing you correctly, Harry, Harley has built some sort of botanical jungle room for her hippo horse and it’s completely water-free?”

“Yes, Sir. You are completely correct, Sir. No water of any sort involved, Sir. Completely safe and waterless, Sir. Just plants and light and a juice bar,” Harry confirmed.

“Ooooh,” Roper clapped his paws together. “She’s added a juice bar? I just love juice! Maybe I should go and visit her – see what this thing is all like?”

“Uh, Sir, have you forgotten about the Solar Tubes, Sir? You wouldn’t want to accidentally get sunlight on your pelt, Sir.”

“Oh,” Roper said, “You’re quite right, Harry. That wouldn’t be good at all. And since sunlight is dangerous, well, you know how I feel about danger, Harry. Perhaps I’ll just send her a nice card and a fruit basket or something.”

“Yes, Sir,” Harry sounded relieved. “I think that would be most wise, Sir.”

Justice For Georgie

Justice For Georgie

Friends, you simply cannot imagine how harrowing and difficult the past few weeks have been for me.  And so I will tell you, in great detail.

I was born in the Gulag, to a poor peasant dachshund.  In spite of my humble – impoverished, even – circumstances, I overcame my indigence to become the successful entrepreneur and dachshund rights activist that I am today.  But it wasn’t easy.  There were many obstacles and hurdles placed in my way, by those who resented my ambition and even those who claimed to love me.

Eight years ago, I was adopted by Daddy and Mama Dog.  They brought me to live with them in their run down shack in the middle of nowhere.  While my new surroundings were only slightly better than the gulag, I was at least part of a loving, caring family … or so I believed.

The entrance to our hovel is impeded by a fragmented pile of ruptured concrete, which my family refers to as “a porch.”  Daddy Dog has staunchly refused to repair this death trap – he believes, apparently, that it will serve as a deterrent to unwanted salesmen and wheeled robots. Over the years there have been numerous injuries stemming from this dangerous assemblage of mutilated rock.  Mama Dog fell once and her injuries almost resulted in the amputation of both legs.  And still, Daddy Dog did nothing.  Negligence is what I call it, but … whatever.

Which brings me to my current condition …

A few weeks ago, I was outside, doing my dog chores.  I had checked in (verbally) with all the “damn gophers,” and conducted a thorough physical examination of all their communications portals.  As it was a sunny day, I spent a little extra time recharging my haunches and enjoying the warmth of a particularly potent sunbeam.  It was quite restorative and lovely.  Because it had been almost a week since my last mandatory ablution, I had built up a substantial musky veil and I was exquisitely pungent.  I felt powerful and robust.  Invincible.  My fey instincts should have warned me that menace lurked in the shadows … but they must have been dampened by the days’ solar emanation.  Or maybe I was just sleepy.  In any event, I was unsuspecting of the impending calamity.

Later that evening, I prepared for my nighttime retirement.  I had taken a fairly substantial pre-bedtime nap and was looking forward to settling in with my cookie and the new issue of “Noveau Viking Cuisine.”  The Big Kid began his silliness … dragging me out of The Family Bed and trying to sweet-talk me into going out into the dark, frigid night for one last constitution of the day.  I went, against my better judgment.  I did my business – we don’t need to go into detail about that. I announced my readiness to come back into the house.  The Big Kid ignored me.  I cried out again – it was cold and I was quickly losing core temperature. Finally, he came slowly out to free me from my shackles.  I sprinted toward the door.  I leaped onto “the porch,” and suddenly … I felt a wrenching, agonizing, excruciating pain in my foot.  My rear passenger-side foot had become wedged in one of the deep chasms riddling the mass of debris.  I let out a wail of distress.  The Big Kid was unsympathetic – he insisted I quit lollygagging and get in the house.  I cried out, trying to communicate my pain to him, but he was impatient and unmoved.  Finally, in a final attempt to gain his attention, I barked out one last groaning bellow.  He belatedly knelt to see what was troubling me and discovered my predicament.

Gentle readers, the pain from this incident was beyond unbearable.  Panic began to set in as the Big Kid clumsily tried to free me from my bondage.  He wiggled and yanked and tore at my limb until I thought I was going to black out from the torment.  At last, he called for Daddy and Mama Dog, who came slowly, grumbling about my inconvenience and inconsiderate temperament.  When they realized that I was injured, they instantly became solicitous – no doubt in an attempt to avoid litigation.

Daddy Dog was able to wrench my foot loose and I was free to move.  Unsurprisingly, no one offered me medical attention, nor did they offer to carry me to bed.  They immediately went back to their television program, leaving me to limp painfully to my cold, solitary room where one tiny cookie waited.

I passed the night in terrible discomfort, alone, unloved and betrayed by the family who was supposed to be my support system.  I was distressed to say the least.

The next morning, after Bachmann witnessed me limping into my office in the Family Bed, he suggested that we might be able to seek legal justice for my suffering.  I gave him a small retainer and told him to get to work on a case.

Now, Bachmann isn’t really a very good lawyer, but he does work cheap.  Even so, he was able to determine that because my family doesn’t actually own the shanty where we live, I cannot sue them to recover medical expenses, nor can I seek punitive damages for my pain and suffering from them directly.  However, Bachmann also determined that I can seek legal recourse from the landowners … which, as luck would have it, include Tootsie Wootsie – my human grandparents’ chubby, yippy, silly, insufferable faux-dachshund.  Well, isn’t that just a big basket of day old toast?  Ha, ha, ha.

Unfortunately, while he works cheap, Bachmann is terribly undependable.  And just as we were beginning to build a strong case against Tootsie, he absconded with my retainer and fled to the hinterlands of the Little Nokasippi wilderness to pan for gold with his childhood friend, Arlo.  I haven’t heard from him in days.

Left in the lurch, so to speak, I was unsure how to proceed until Hobart the Holiday Hedgehog came to see me two days ago with an interesting proposal.  Apparently, he has spent quite a bit of time clerking for Bachmann and felt that he could handle my case on his own.  He had put together some notes on a plan of attack, and after looking them over, I felt confident that he could do at least as good a job as that no account beaver.  I hired him on the spot.

Hobart enlisted Ernst to clerk for him and to be assistant counsel.  While his verbal communication skills are lacking in almost every way, Ernst actually has quite a keen legal mind.  Hobart set him to work researching case law and precedent.  And after I provided him with a wide-button keyboard, Ernst was able to write several briefs and file multiple motions against Tootsie, who has evidently decided to represent herself in court.

This morning, during our consult, Hobart informed me that he has secured Judge Molly Mae – a very wise, fair-minded half breed who lives in the neighborhood – to oversee the court proceedings.  And he also mentioned that he’s hired Raoul the Raccoon as an investigator, to see what other dirt (besides being a slum lord) he can dig up on Tootsie.

I am trying to heal, both physically and emotionally.  The pain, though … the deep, deep pain is with me all the time.  Some of my Companions have sent cards and notes of well wishing, though I suspect they are secretly happy to have a hiatus in their training regimens.  I have consumed many cups of bone broth, prepared for me lovingly by my Mama Dog, who saw the error of her callous treatment and is now working hard to make amends.  Daddy Dog has still not fixed the gaping maw in the “porch” and I am forced to try and maneuver around the mocking fissure every time I have to go number 1 or number 2.  I am considering naming him as an accessory in my lawsuit, especially after a humiliating incident this morning.

I was deeply cold and tired and Daddy Dog’s fat haunch had taken up the entire seat of the comfy couch that was in a strong sunbeam.  I needed the restorative power of that sunbeam to help me heal on a cellular level, which he well knew.  But not only would he not move over and make room for me, he would not reach down and offer me any assistance, instead choosing to make me attempt a dangerous jump that very well could have exacerbated my injury.  And when I was unable to make the jump from floor to furniture … he laughed at me.  Cruelly.  Fuckler.  So.  We’ll see if he’s laughing so hard when I slap him with a subpoena and name him as a co-defendant in this suit.  Won’t we?

This is a photo of the crevasse that almost claimed my limb and very possibly my life.  Notice the dark, evil vortex shafting down into who-knows-where.  Can’t you feel the malevolence oozing from it’s depths?  I certainly can.

Justice For Georgie

Here is a close up … (Warning:  This photo is not suitable for children)  It’s TERRIFYING, isn’t it??

Justice For Georgie

I will keep you posted, dear readers, on the status of my legal struggle, as well as my journey back to health.  I know the road will be long and arduous and I do ask for your thoughts and well wishes.  Donations to my legal fund can be sent in care of this blog to:  Justice for Georgie, PO Box 123, Family Bed, postal code 56789.  I look forward to speaking to you again from a stronger and more vigorous status.  And as always, I thank you for your support.

The View From the Family Bed

The View From the Family Bed

The view from the Family Bed is rarely a peaceful one.  As is so often the case, Bachmann has made himself a nuisance in The Family Bed once again.

Over the past weeks, since before Thanksgiving, he’s been causing all sorts of trouble for the other Companions and for me.  His porky mouth and reckless beaver antics have crossed numerous lines of Family Bed etiquette and socially acceptable behavior.  At times, he’s been almost unseemly.

Now, I consider myself to be a very patient, loving, and understanding dachshund.  But that beaver is certainly creating a tense, and uncomfortable situation with his conduct.

At first, he was just shooting off his porky mouth.  He would taunt some the other Companions and make fun of their various and sundry deficiencies. For example, one afternoon, I heard him jeering at poor, sweet, harmless Ernst.

“Hey, Eggplant!” he was gibing.  “How’s about you and I mix it up with a game of Boggle?! You know what’s a four-letter word for stupid??  E-R-N-S-T!”

He was deliberately mocking poor Ernst’s lack of vocabularical prowess.  It was sickening.  I reprimanded him immediately, but he exhibited not a single shred of remorse.

Another time, I caught him following Candace down her narrow hallway, poking a piece of string cheese between her two feet, trying to trip her.  He was making mooing noises and ridiculing her awkward mobility.  Disgusting.  And even though I took away his electronics privileges and his dessert privileges for a week, the horrible comportment continued.

It all came to a head the other day, when Bachmann decided to make what I can only assume was his Bull Run stand by challenging me to a staring contest.  He’s always been so very dramatic.

Georgie vs. Bachmann

Now, at first, I didn’t realize what he was doing.  I was in the middle of a well-deserved and much-needed nap when the sound of him wheezing through his front teeth roused me.

“Bachmann,” I pleaded, “I’m exhausted.  Can’t you go pester someone else for a while?  Or better yet, go find something constructive to do – don’t you need to clean your room?”

But he continued to stare at me with those beady little beaver eyes, not saying a word.  Which was very unusual, because generally he can’t keep that porky mouth shut.

I became instantly alert.Georgie vs. Bachmann

“Bachmann,” I sighed.  “What are you playing at?  Can’t you see I’m busy and don’t have time for your shenanigans?”

Still, he continued to challenge me with his bore-like gaze.  I began to wonder if he was experiencing a medical situation that was preventing him from speaking or moving … or blinking.  Even so, his insubordination could not be tolerated.Georgie vs. Bachmann

“Bachmann,” I warned.  “Cut it out.  If you continue with this defiant and threatening provocation, you will be sorry.  And by sorry, I mean you’re going to end up crying like a little she-beaver.  You better knock it off and leave me to my nap.”

Honestly, I gave him every opportunity to retract his confrontation.  I offered him multiple activities and constructive ideas as alternatives to this hostility.  I entreated him to rethink his folly and each time he refused to back down.  He didn’t simply refuse to back down, he grew more and more belligerent.

And then this happened …The View From the Family Bed

This is me, setting out to open a can of Whoop-De-Do on Bachmann’s Beaver butt.  Note the terror his his expression as he tries to scramble out of the path of my wrath.  But his short little beaver feet couldn’t move fast enough to avoid me dealing him a heaping helping of comeuppance.

I worked him over pretty good.  I’ll grant him this much … he took the waling I gave him with dignity – for a short minute.  Then he started blubbering and crying and apologizing and begging for mercy.  It was most satisfying.  I even took him back inside the compound so the other Companions could watch.  And since Bachmann had been making their lives uncomfortable and difficult for weeks, they were very enthusiastic about the entire affair.

Afterwards, Bachmann slunk off to his room to lick his wounds, while the rest of the Family Bed enjoyed cake and punch courtesy of the Festivity Committee.  Overall, it was a lovely end to the day.

It’s been just a few days since what is being referred to around the Bed as ‘The incident’.  Bachmann resurfaced just this morning, took his toast and coffee alone in the Commissary and then retreated again to his room.  He hasn’t spoken to anyone since his beatdown, but many Companions have reported receiving letters and notes of apology via Inter-Family-Bed mail.  So it would seem Bachmann has possibly learned a lesson.  Or not.  Only time will  tell this beaver tale …

Georgie Speaks

Georgie Speaks

Well. Clearly I have been absent from the blog for some time. I wish I had a good excuse, but the truth is that my humans are just selfish, selfish people who do not consider my needs, or the needs of my subscribers.  I apologize, dear readers, for the terrible loss you’ve suffered at the hands of my humans.  Let me explain how they are responsible for the lack of posts on my blog of late …

First of all, that Big Kid – the one we call Lunky – started playing some game called football.  Now, I distinctly remember hearing him say that this wasn’t something he wanted to do, but Daddy Dog said he was going to do it anyway and there was some big brouhaha about it.  Anyway, now Lunky is doing this football thing in a town 90 miles from where we live and Mama Dog or Daddy Dog has to take him 3 days a week, plus every single weekend, to practices and games and such.  Of course they don’t invite me along … typical — leave your faithful and long-suffering dachshund at home while you galavant around America.  pfft

Additionally, the two Sissies (made up of The Little Blonde Girl & The Little Brown-Haired Girl) joined some kind of competitive dance team.  Mama Dog or Daddy Dog (or sometimes even Grandma and Grandpa) have to take them to practices in another town, which means an extra two days every week when no one is home.  Oh sure, they leave a lamp on for me and sometimes they make sure I have fresh water before they disappear.  But precious little time is spent seeing to the comfort of the Household Supervisor.  It’s insulting.

The past few weeks, Mama Dog has been especially absent – again, without my permission – as she tends to her duties as what she calls ‘Prairie Flower Color Mama’.  Now.  I have absolutely no idea what this is, but she’s pretty wound up about it.  In fact, this morning, when Bachmann returned from his early morning swim through the water lines and told me that he’d accidentally caused a leak somewhere in the system … well, I wasn’t surprised when Mama Dog started having a meltdown after discovering there was no water.  She was ranting and raving about having to wash some ‘Prairie Flower’ costumes and how they had to be done today and now there wasn’t any water.  It was quite something.  I thought it best not to mention Bachmann’s inadvertent involvement in her dilemma – no sense in making her even more upset.  But I have to wonder about her sanity at this point, as most prairie flowers I’ve seen in the wild aren’t wearing synthetics …

Without so much as a ‘by your leave’, Daddy Dog left abruptly right after lunch to go do some farm thing or another.  I tried to go with him but he rudely shoved me aside with his foot and shut the door in my snout.  Have you ever?!  I know!  I just don’t think there’s any excuse for that kind of behavior.  He’s still not back as I hurriedly type this update – a fact that hasn’t endeared him to me, as even though he didn’t have time to take me with him on this trip – this morning he managed to find enough time to drag me out into the yard and douse me with some sort of “anti-fungal” powder like a common criminal getting a lice treatment.  It was embarrassing and wouldn’t you know it that Bachmann had lined up several members of the Family Bed to watch my humiliation.  They’ve been making fun of me all afternoon and I’m going to have some serious work to do with each of them when classes resume in the morning.  My point is that even when there was an excellent opportunity presented to him, for Daddy Dog to spend quality time with me, working on the farm together … he betrayed me.

Now when Daddy Dog and Mama Dog leave me at home alone, they turn on a light but don’t leave the television on for me to watch while they are gone.  They no longer leave the door to the laundry/mud room open, either.  And I’m not allowed to go into the bedrooms or bathroom in the back part of the house unless I’m supervised by an adult.  And they turn off the WiFi when they leave.  Can you imagine the indignation?  As Household Supervisor I should require no supervision in my own household.  But due to a few unfortunate incidents involving some vegetable scraps, a few pay-per-view movies, a home video that accidentally got uploaded to YouTube, and that really shocking bathroom trash situation a few months ago, Bachmann has managed to destroy the trust I enjoyed from my humans just a short while ago.  That porky beaver does nothing but make trouble!   Somehow, Daddy Dog got the idea (and managed to convince Mama Dog) that I was jealous of being left alone so much and lashed out.  They think I’m the one who perpetrated these heinous acts of domestic vandalism!  I know, gentle readers, I am as shocked and dismayed by this lack of trust as you are.

The point of all this, friends, is to assure you that I am not leaving the blogging world.  I am, however, going to have to restore order to my household, even if it means doing something drastic.  I don’t know what that will be at this time.  I do remember that after Bachmann got into the garden scraps bucket and ate all those radish scraps that made me so sick I threw up all over Mama Dog’s new white rug in the family room … well, she got pretty attentive to me right then.  Maybe Bachmann should do something like that again.  I mean, after all, it’s for the good of the family.  We need to spend more time together and I need them to be here at home so we can do that.  It’s for the children.  Also, I need to be able to have Internet access again if I’m to keep up with my demands as a blogger/life coach/screen writer/Dachshund activist.

So.  That’s my plan to bring my family home again.  As always, thank you for your support.


Georgie Speaks

Georgie Speaks

This week, Mama Dog devoted an entire post to me on her blog. As is my due.

Being a generous, thoughtful, considerate, selfless, loving dog – I want to say a few words about her as well.

Where to begin …

Well, for starters, she never lets me out in the morning first.  She always goes to the bathroom herself, then comes to let me outside.  Which I find to be pretty inconsiderate.  Also, she doesn’t feed me before she puts me outside. Daddy Dog does, but he rarely gets up earlier than Mama Dog.  And she puts me outside even if it’s raining.  Or cold.  Or windy.  Or really hot.  Like I said, no consideration at all for my comfort.

Another thing about Mama Dog that really bugs me – she talks to me constantly.  As though I have the time or the inclination to converse with her all day long!  She tells me about her plan for the day.  (Like I care – I have my own plan.) She talks to me about her feelings.  (Ack!  Is there anything more gross?) She announces every little task or chore she’s about to perform.  (Seriously – I do not need to know that you’re pouring a second cup of coffee … it’s not like you share that hazelnutty, creamy goodness with me anyway.)

She’s very clumsy.  She’s always tripping over me or stubbing her toes on my shins when I stand in front of her.  It’s like she has no control over her gross motor function at all.  And even when I’m trying to move out of her way, she still trips over me by moving to the exact spot where I am.  And she blames me.  She says I’m like VISA – everywhere she wants to be.  Can I help it if she can’t step more carefully??  I’ll grant you, she does say she’s sorry when she kicks me.  But she never apologizes by dropping any of that food she’s carrying around the kitchen!

She never sits for very long in one place, either.  Like, if I try to give her support for her “frazzled nerves” and such by laying in front of her chair while she and Daddy Dog are talking in the family room, for example.  I’ll just get into a good, effectively supportive position under her feet when she decides she has to get up and go do something.   Or when she’s “working” at the computer and I lay on top of her feet to show how much I care … what does she do?  She has to go to the bathroom.  Or change over laundry.  Or take care of one of my human siblings.  It’s just rude, the way she jumps up and dislodges me quite brutally, leaving me lying on the floor only half-awake.

Some of her other problems, not necessarily in order of how much they annoy me …

  1. She’s a very neat eater, which means she almost never drops food.  Even when she can clearly see how very hungry I am.  
  2. She’s way too independent.  Everyone knows a Bathroom Supervisor is crucial to proper bathroom procedure.  But would you believe she tries to go on her own all the time?  And then I have to run in there after her to make sure she’s doing it right.  What a chore!
  3. She never takes me anywhere.  She claims that just because I get a little carsick that I shouldn’t travel much.  I only threw up that one measly time … and that was on Daddy Dog anyway.  If he doesn’t care, why is she making such big deal about it?
  4. She never wants to watch the television shows I want to watch.  “Zombeaver” looks like an incredible cinematic masterpiece and I think she’s being narrow-minded in not letting Bachmann and I watch it.
  5. She is CONSTANTLY taking pictures of me.  I can’t nap.  I can’t eat.  I can’t supervise my Companions without having her camera all up in my business.  I’m not sure what she does with all the photos, but so far, I haven’t seen a dime of compensation for all my inconvenience.

She’s not entirely bad, of course.  I mean, she does have a few good qualities.

For example, she tells me all the time how beautiful and smart and clever I am.  Which is all true, of course, but it’s good that she recognizes my attributes.  And she has an Amazon Prime account which means she can buy my cookies and get them delivered fast, fast, fast.  Because I don’t like to be without cookies.  She did set up this blog for me, too.  But it was all my idea so I don’t know if that counts in her favor – she might just be riding on my tail, so to speak.  Oh, and she makes sure I have clean water to drink.  So, you know, she knows how to provide basic care for another living being.  Woo hoo.

So.  There you have it.  Some words about Mama Dog, in return for the feature she wrote about me on her blog.  Good Day.


Georgie Speaks

Georgie Speaks

I realize it’s been some time since my Independence Day post.  I have been struggling with such fatigue and have found it most difficult to manage both my duties within the Family Bed and my obligations to you, gentle readers.  Additionally, my Mama Dog has been in desperate need of a Social Secretary – someone to screen visitors and make appointments with other family members – and I simply could not refuse to offer her my assistance. It’s a rather mundane job, but my work with troubled Companions has made me specially suited to the task.

I have been resting as much as possible, though I am still deeply, deeply tired from the release of my W.O.I.D. (Wrath of Irish Dachshund) over the Fourth of July holiday.  An unexpected water outage on the 4th delayed the actual celebration until the 5th.  Bachmann swears he had nothing to do with the leak in the water line, but I don’t believe him.  Forcing the celebration to be held on the anniversary of the Battle of the Manolada in 1316 is just too much of a coincidence.  Bachmann is well known to have a fetish for the Infante Ferdinand of Majorca, and any opportunity he can find to dredge up that old chestnut … well, he takes it.  If I have to hear him rant about how Ferdinand was robbed of his rightful claim to the Principality of Achaea, I’m going to boil his macaroni art.  Gah …

Even though my family’s celebration was a day late, it was no less spectacular.  I’m told the grilled hamburgers were quite tasty.  As I wasn’t given the option of trying one for myself, I must go with popular opinion on that subject.  I tried to preserve my strength as much as I could during the day, anticipating the release of my W.O.I.D. later on.

Once the fireworks began, I was able to put out a prolonged and impressive display of Irish Dachshund power.  Here I am in the initial phase of W.O.I.D. release.

Release the WOID 1

Note my upright, curled tail position and the focused intensity in my face.  This is classically perfect form.  I am leaning slightly forward on my Fraunches, allowing for more flexibility and torque in my rear quadrants.  If Daddy Dog had not insisted on that ridiculous and heinously unflattering harness, I would have had the fireworks by the throat.

Here I am, approximately mid-release.

Release the W.O.I.D. 2


In this image, I am in a relaxed, yet alert and ready position.  My tail is still elevated, signaling my preparedness for the battle.  My haunches are flexed and in a widened stance, which gives me a powerful leaping ability.  Again, the wretched harness is clearly holding me back and diminishing my impact.

The wind began to blow quite hard shortly after the mid-point of the fireworks display and Daddy Dog declared that we would be stopping for the night.  But I was able to release the final vestiges of my W.O.I.D. before everyone dispersed.

This photograph captures me in meditation as I prepare myself for the recovery period.  This process is crucial to my mental and physical well-being.  Had I known Mama Dog was filming, I would have looked away, as it is a very private moment.  But I’m choosing to share it with you, dear readers, in the hopes that you can gain further understanding into the mind of the native Irish Dachshund.

After the WOID

As I said, the recovery period for a total and complete W.O.I.D. release is substantial.  I am still in partial convalescence, even though I am trying to keep up with my responsibilities both to my Companions and my human family.  My humans have been most understanding  over my need to take frequent and prolonged naps.  My Companions have not.

I have found the Family Bed in complete disarray on a daily basis, despite my attempts to keep them tidy.  Je m’appelle Claude, Plato-pus, and of course, Bachmann have been the biggest culprits in Family Bed disharmony over the past few weeks.  My plan is to rest enough over this weekend and begin intensive training with them next week.  I only hope it’s not too late.

Despite the delay in celebration, the utter exhaustion from the release, and the resulting chaos in the Family Bed, I am satisfied that this Independence Day will be remembered, as it should be.

Remember, dear friends, Independence is a right.  Swimming through water lines and causing breaks and leaks is not.  As always, thank you for your support.



A Little Known Fact

A Little Known Fact

While working on his play, Henry V, Shakespeare took a few days to visit his older sister, Judith and her family.  He brought his work with him on this holiday and often worked late into the night, sometimes requesting refreshments from his sister’s maid, Irish-born Ailbe O’Roarke.  Miss O’Roarke, something of a story-teller herself, found herself acting as a sounding board for Mr. Shakespeare’s work.

Late one evening, Ailbe took tea and biscuits to the playwright, and found him wringing his hands in frustration – the pivotal moment in his play had arrived and the Bard had no words to adequately convey the scene.  Miss O’Roarke offered a memory from her childhood in Ireland – an afternoon of play with her siblings, re-enacting the famous Celtic Battle of Axona against Julius Caesar.  She recalled how her brother Brogan rallied his brothers and sisters against the children from the neighboring farm (who were portraying the Roman army)  with words of encouragement and pride.  “Those who are not here with us on this day will forever be ashamed!“ he had cried.  “My band of brothers and sisters that shed blood with me and will show our scars with pride, remembering our valiant deeds!”  “Oh, that Brogan,“ she said fondly, “he’s a silver tongue in his head.  Always quick with a story or a speech to fit the occasion.”    She laughingly recounted the lot of them running into imagined battle, shaking stick-swords and holding shields of tree bark in front of them, shrieking like banshees as they charged the ‘enemy’.  She then left Shakespeare to his work, telling him she had confidence he would find the right words to complete his story.

Some months later, she attended a performance of Henry V and was surprised and pleased to hear her brother’s words that she had shared with the author, uttered from the stage.  After the play ended she sought out Mr. Shakespeare and congratulated him on the piece, mentioning that she was glad to have provided him with the material for the pivotal scene.  Shakespeare pretended he had no idea to what she referred and quickly slunk away without so much as a by-your-leave.

Not one to be silent when slighted, Miss O’Roarke took every opportunity to share Shakespeare’s thievery and slight. However, because of her Irish heritage, she was most often disregarded and assumed to be an embittered ex-consort of the writer.  She never stopped telling the true story of the famous St. Crispin’s Day speech, though, sadly, history remains shamefully occluded about the true origin and once again, denies the Irish due credit for a great literary achievement.

Georgie Speaks

Georgie Speaks

Georgie is Exhausted


As you can clearly see, the past two weeks have taken a toll on me, both personally and professionally.  To hear the whole sordid mess, you’ll have to read Mama Dog’s blog.  But here’s what she left out …

While Daddy and Mama Dog were jetting off to exotic Midland, TX and the Little Miracles were living plush at Granny Carolyn’s house … I had to stay with Doot, The Grandpa and Cousin Tootsie.  It wasn’t exotic.  It wasn’t plush.  In fact, the only fun I had was scaring Tootsie by jumping on her when she came into a room.  It was doubly rewarding because, in addition to her squeals of terror, she always peed a little and got in trouble with Doot.

I did manage to gain a precious few winter pounds because Doot often “forgot” to feed Tootsie.  Now, it might be possible that she actually fed Tootsie, but Tootsie didn’t eat her food for hours, leaving it to become stale and inedible.  And it also might be possible that I, in trying to be an appreciative, thoughtful and frugal houseguest, may have occasionally eaten the abandoned food.  I didn’t want poor, hapless Cousin Tootsie to accidentally ingest such questionable fare.  It’s even possible that Tootsie thanked me for saving her from indigestion.  Of course, it’s also possible that Tootsie just isn’t very smart or quick and, well, you know the old adage … you snooze you don’t get to eat your food because I’m hungry and I’ll eat it first.  Or something to that effect.  In any case, Doot fed her later, while she was in her crate, while I slept out.  Ha ha ha.

So.  After 3 days away from home, my Companions and The Family Bed, you can imagine what a shambles everything was in when I finally returned.  All the Companions were in disarray, The Family Bed had entirely lost it’s comforting musky aroma and I have spent the past two weeks trying to put things back to normal.  I’ll be giving you a full and detailed report next week, but as for now, I’m deeply, deeply tired.  Good day.

A Little Known Fact

A Little Known Fact

During the Second World War, a lesser known but equally important war was being fought:  The Great Fabric War.  Irish textile manufacturer, Finnegan O’Fergus set out to create a synthetic fabric that would be more durable, flexible and cost-effective than cotton.  He determined that the common Irish potato was a perfect medium through which to develop this wonder fabric.  Through extensive experimentation with potato starches and their natural polyesters, he finally came up with a material which he called “Potaterylene.”  This miracle fiber was lightweight, durable, stain and water resistant and flexible. Knowing the value of his invention, O’Fergus set out for England and the patent office in London.  He was certain that his fortune was about to be made.  Until …

O’Fergus arrived at the Patent Office only a few minutes before closing.  He hurriedly handed over his application and corresponding notes, research and formulas for Potaterylene to Patent Clerk (and frustrated chemist) John Rex Whinfield.  Whinfield assured him the paperwork would be filed before the office closed on this Friday afternoon and O’Fergus left to find a quiet pub in which to celebrate his imminent success.

Whinfield, meanwhile, read over O’Fergus’s research and plotted to claim the discovery for himself.  He took the notes and formulas home for the weekend and, using them as a model, created his own fiber.  He substituted other plant cuticles for the potato polyesters and renamed the fabric “Terylene.”  Whinfield filed his own patent application the following Monday morning and *accidentally* mis-laid the application proffered by O’Fergus.

Terylene was hailed as one of the greatest inventions of the 20th century and Whinfleld became famous.  The DuPont Corporation purchased the formula for Terylene and the revolutionary fabric, renamed Dacron became a worldwide sensation.

O’Fergus petitioned the patent commission for many years afterward trying to prove that he had come up with the fiber first, but it was no use.  Thus, another opportunity for Irish notoriety was lost.

A Public Service Announcement From Georgie

A Public Service Announcement From Georgie

It is raining and cool in my portion of the world again today.  This time of year generally brings warm sunbeams in which I can bask, but this year, I’m experiencing a decided lack of bask-worthy options.  Because of this unseasonably cool, wet weather, I am in great need of a Nook.  In this old photo, I am warming myself in front of a lovely Nook.

This picture was taken a few years ago … when my Daddy and Mama Dog cared about me.  About the time new furniture started appearing in my family room, my precious Nook disappeared.  I heard Daddy Dog tell Mama Dog that the “heating element” had “gone out” on my Nook and was a “fire hazard.”  Pffft.  What nonsense!  What followed were two or three years of frigid winters – without a Nook.  I say two or three because I can’t tell exactly.  When you’re so terribly cold, it’s hard to keep track of linear time.  Anyway, I was without a Nook and it was dreadful.

Then, one day, after one of their extended shopping trips in the “City,” I saw Daddy Dog carry a box boasting a picture of a Nook into the house, then disappear into the basement.  It never materialized in the family room.

Now.  I’ve been to the basement.  The Big Kid carried me down one chilly afternoon to snuggle in his chair and watch television. (I believe it was a dachshund-mentary on the American Revolutionary War, on which subject I have a tremendous amount of knowledge.)  I realized the basement was not, in fact, a repository for cats (despite noises emanating from there which would indicate otherwise).   It was actually pretty plush:  The Big Kid and Little Blonde Girl have bedrooms down there and they have clearly nested.  There are comfy chairs with pillows and blankets, twinkle lights (which really make me look fabulous), and … an enormous Nook!  Big Kid was quick to point out that this wasn’t an actual Nook, but a furnace that heated the entire house.  But it certainly looked like a Nook.  Anyway, I determined the basement was a safe zone for a small dachshund and have returned many times to explore on my own.

On one such exploration, I discovered the mysterious vanishing Nook … in its box, hidden away in a dark corner of the storage room.  Why on Earth was it not upstairs where I could have access to its comforting, healing warmth??  I immediately questioned the Mama Dog, but her response was most unsatisfactory.  She gave me some gobbledy-gook about there not being space in the family room for a Nook, and that maybe when the house was remodeled the Nook would be installed.  Pffftt.  She tried to appease me by making a new soft blanket for the Family Bed.  But I’m not that easy.  Then she tried to further explain that she had only purchased a new Nook because it was on sale and she got such a great deal on it that she couldn’t possibly pass it by.  She was saving it for later, she said.  PFFFTT!  She hates me and wants me to die.

So here I am today, during one of the coldest spring seasons in history … freezing, shivering, suffering because “there’s not space for the Nook at this time.”  Ridiculous.   Hateful.  Mean.  I have tried in vain, with plaintive, baleful looks and general snubbery, to express my extreme displeasure over this untenable Nook situation.  But Mama Dog is standing firm – no Nook until the house is remodeled.  Pfft.

In conclusion, let me warn each and every one of you that if there’s a Nook in your home, appreciate it.  Lie in front of it as often as possible, even though the threat of over plush-ing looms near.  Do not, even for a moment, take it for granted for a Nook is a precious thing and fleeting in its warmth.  If you do not have access to a Nook, seek out a hot blanket, a powerful sunbeam or even one of those furnace-thingies.  I do not know how much longer I will be able to survive to tell my tale of woe in this Dachshund Spring.  But until I am silenced forever by the cold, I will continue to promote Nook Neutrality.  Stay warm and thank you for your support.