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.

 

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.

The View From the Family Bed

The View From the Family Bed

When I opened The Family Bed Education, Rehabilitation and Training Center, it was with the particular goal of providing a nurturing, enriching environment in which to instruct my Companions.  Over the years, I have trained countless Companions – shaping them into upstanding, productive members of society.  Many of them have gone on to careers in the Arts, Politics, Finance, and Sports Medicine.  A few have moved into the arena of Community Organizing and Activism, but one has to expect a certain number of failures in any educational setting, I suppose.   Still, overall, I enjoy my work and feel the FBERTC is a successful institution.

Probably the most rewarding part of my day, however, is the work I do with the more disadvantaged members of the Family Bed.  Some of my companions suffer from developmental challenges.  Some are behaviorally dysfunctional.  And some are just porky-mouthed. (You know of whom I speak – Bachmann.)

image

One of my toughest cases is Ernst …  He’s an Eggplant.  And though he’s very sweet, there are clearly many problems which I must help him overcome. For example,  I’m constantly reminding Ernst to use his words because when he gets overly excited he just grunts and points.  I believe his issue stems from being left on the vine over-long … I’ve consulted many experts and they agree with my diagnosis.

I work with Ernst on a bi-weekly basis but we often nap together.  I have found, through my work in the Family Bed, that napping is a great way to build trust and promote inter-companion communication.  I do nap with other Companions, both within and without the confines of the Family Bed, as each individual case may demand.  In this photo, Ernst and I are napping on the couch in the family room.  The elevated position gives Ernst a feeling of empowerment, and also serves to protect him from the prying eyes and often cruel taunts of some of the other Companions. Notice his serene countenance.  Plus, Ernst is quite cuddly and I look especially lovely next to his plush purple exterior.

In many ways, Ernst is my biggest success story.  Since I first began to train Ernst, his vocabulary has expanded by over 12 words.  Additionally, he no longer spits as a greeting.  And while there are numerous issues yet to be resolved – his need to announce bodily functions, for example – I firmly believe that I can help Ernst become the Eggplant he has always longed to be.

Georgie Speaks

Georgie Speaks

 

In all my years of study and scholarly pursuits, I have yet to find a satisfactory explanation for the existence of cats. Or fat-free cheese.

Truth be told, I’ve really never understood the human fascination with fat-free anything.  As any dachshund can tell you, the flavor is in the fat.  And if there’s no flavor … well, I’d probably eat it anyway, but I’d enjoy it much more if it was full of fatty goodness.

You know, cats don’t have a lot of fat.  It’s a little known fact that cat meat is very lean.  Not that I’ve ever eaten a cat.  But I hear things.  And my Buffalo Spirit Guide used to have a cat named Chauncey and she told me that he was the stringy-est, most non-fat animal in her menagerie.  And I believe her because, well, she’s a Spirit Guide and they don’t lie.  So maybe there’s some kind of correlation between the purpose-less-ness of cats and fat-free cheese.  It only makes sense, doesn’t it?

Let’s examine the facts, shall we?  1. Fat-free cheese is not real cheese.  Fact.  2. Cats are lean.   Fact.  (My exhaustive research has sussed out that 83.6% of the cats I’ve seen on Facebook or other social media are approximately 12.6 pounds or less.  I’d consider that to be quite lean, and seeing as how I am a mere 15 pounds myself, I know something about being lean.  But since we’re talking about lean cats and their fake-osity rather than svelte, haunchy dachshunds who are obviously real, we’ll put that aside for the moment)   Therefore, I would postulate that lean cats are not, in fact, real.   Furthermore, since it’s been well-established through a series of rigorous tests that all cats are lean … well, the obvious conclusion we come to is that all cats are not real.

Now, the real question becomes are lean cats not real cats?  Or (and this is where my superior deductive skills come into play) are lean cats not real cheese?  Ha!  I believe now we have the basis for a solid debate, my friends.

I’m already writing my speech for the Nobel committee.  Or perhaps the Book Prize awards ceremony.  Or the USDA.  Maybe even the Grammys.  It’s such an intriguing discussion for every aspect of society.  Just remember, you read it here first.  Or perhaps I should just be quietly content knowing I’ve sparked what could be the most important conversation in decades?  After all, I’m a modest dachshund – not a glory hound.

Ah.  Well.  After such deep thinking, I believe it’s time for me to take a nap.  But before I go, I’d like to reiterate that I have never, will never, and do not currently support eating cat meat.  Or any other fat-free food.  Like fat-free cheese.  Although they could be one in the same.  Good day, and thank you for your support.

Georgie Speaks

Georgie Speaks

You may not be aware, gentle readers, that I am known in certain circles as Ar the Sun Dog. It’s an honorary title for the most part – bestowed upon me by an ancient Beaver Culture, the remnants of which make their home just outside Sheboygen.  They don’t worship me or anything like that, but they do send me small tokens and gifts throughout the year.  Nothing extravagant, mind you – shell necklaces, books of poetry, smoked meats.  It’s nice to be recognized, I must say.

My own love affair with the sun came at an early age.  I always knew the sun and I shared a special connection.  We both are warm, energy-giving points of light.  We both shine brightest around 2:30 p.m.  And we both find joy in just settling peacefully at the end of the day with a puzzle and a light savory snack.  Well, I don’t actually know for certain that the sun likes savory snacks – he may indeed have quite the sweet tooth.  But I am sure that he loves a good puzzle, just as much as I do.

The truth is, dear subscribers, that everything just feels better when one is in the sun.  Allow me to illustrate …

Here I am, basking in this particularly plush sunbeam.  Do you see how content and peaceful I look?  I remember it was a lovely afternoon and Mama Dog had left the curtains open so I could bask.  Delightful.

And this is me soaking up an early morning sunbeam and surveying my domain.  I look noble and majestic, don’t I?  (Mama & Daddy Dog have since replaced this sofa with a new one.  The new one doesn’t have cushions like this so I can no longer sun myself on a lofty perch.  Hateful humans.)

The health benefits of sun exposure are well documented.  I won’t bore you with the details, but I’ve read article after article stating that regular and prolonged sun-basking can eliminate cavities, strengthen tail-wagging muscles, cure warts, and even make one’s beard grow faster.

Ever in pursuit of health and wellness, I will continue to seek the healing and regenerative sunbeams, regardless of how inconveniently placed I might be.  My humans can walk around me or step over me.  It’s not like their legs are only 3″ long … Good day and Thank you for your support.

A Little Known Fact

A Little Known Fact

Irishman Duncan O’Flanagan longed for a peaceful, quiet life. During his career as a soldier of fortune, he had seen enough violence and bloodshed and now he was ready to retire and fulfill his lifelong dream of running his own bakery. He excitedly opened Duncan’s Dough Hut in the small Irish village of Booterstown, where he baked breads, cakes, pastries and pies for pleasure and profit.

Particularly popular with his customers, were his special loaves of pre-sliced sourdough bread. The texture was refined and light and the villagers declared that Duncan’s bread was a wonder. O’Flanagan’s secret was the special slicing machine he had invented, which allowed him to uniformly slice the bread before packaging it for sale. Customers loved the neat, even slices, which were the perfect thickness for sandwiches and saved time when preparing the day’s lunches for many busy homemakers.

Word of this ‘wonder’ bread began to spread throughout Ireland, England, Europe and eventually, even across the ocean. Finally, it came to the attention of frustrated American inventor, Otto Rohwedder, who had long been puzzling over his own bread predicament:  How could he cram thick handcut slices of homemade bread into a newly marketed device called a toaster and achieve even toasting on both sides?  In each of his attempts, the unevenly sliced bread inevitably came out of the toaster un-browned on one half and charred on the other. Upon hearing of the Irish ‘wonder’ bread, Rohwedder was struck with the notion that, if he were to market the idea of pre-slicing and packaging bread before sale in the United States, he could achieve wealth and fame. He knew few would question his claim to the idea, as Ireland was much removed from the industrial revolution currently spreading through America.

After several failed attempts to recreate the success of O’Flanagan’s slicing device, including one disastrous idea where he used hat pins to hold the bread slices in place for packaging, Rohwedder finally marketed his bread slicer in 1928. The pre-sliced bread was well-received in the United States and Rohwedder did indeed receive credit for the revolutionary idea.

Although there were many in Ireland and even England who decried the American’s claim of ownership to this fantastic invention, they were largely ignored and dismissed as radicals and Irish nationalists. Thus another Irish achievement has passed into the annals of history, falsely attributed to a lesser nation …

Georgie Speaks

Georgie Speaks

This Easter Bunny fellow seems pretty shifty to me.  I mean, here’s a rabbit who makes his living hiding eggs from children.  Seriously … what kind of career is that?   Can you imagine how embarrassed his parents are?  And what they tell their friends and neighbors?

‘Well, yes, Steven is actually working as The Easter Bunny.  We tried to convince him to go into civil engineering or law  – or something more practical like Community Organizing.  But he insisted that he had a “higher calling” to be The Easter Bunny.  All his brothers and sisters have Master’s Degrees or PhD’s and successful careers, you know?  I guess he’s just destined to be the rogue of the family.  Maybe if his father had been around more instead of spending so much time in Farmer McGregor’s garden?  It’s hard on a boy to not have his father’s guidance.  Or maybe we shouldn’t have babied him so much when he was a kit.  He was the youngest of 26, though – and I knew he would be my last … it was hard not to coddle him.  Ah, well, we do enjoy having him still living at home with us after all these years … mostly.’

Georgie waits for The Easter Bunny
Georgie watches for “The Easter Bunny” … if that is his real name.

I mean, come on!  Even Bachmann has a better 5 year plan.  What would parents say if they knew ‘Steven the Easter Bunny’ lives in the basement of his parents’ house and spends most of the year building model forts?  They probably wouldn’t be so keen to let their little darlings accept candy, colored eggs and gifts from him, would they?  So I’m keeping an eye out for him … for the children.

Happy Easter from Beard to Beard.  Thank you for your support.

Georgie Speaks

Georgie Speaks

Last fall, I noticed these weird mounds of dirt with holes in the center showing up in my yard. I heard the Mama Dog tell the Daddy Dog that “those damn gophers” had come back. She was really mad. In my capacity as Yard Supervisor, I immediately launched an official investigation, but was reprimanded for digging. In my continuing quest for knowledge, I attempted to initiate contact with the “damn gophers.” But when I shouted, “HELLOOOO!” into their doorways, there was no response.  I monitored the situation for several weeks days hours, and considered initiating negotiations with these interlopers, but it got dark pretty early so I decided it would be better to wait until I could look them in the eye.  It’s important to look a potential adversary in the eye when determining whether or not they are trustworthy … a lesson Bachmann has taught me.

Georgie says, "Helloooo!"
Georgie initiates a negotiation with the gophers.

Now that spring is upon us, I notice the strange dirt hummocks are more plentiful than before.  Mama Dog and Daddy Dog have resumed their discussions on how to deal with the “damn gophers.”  I’ve conducted many several two hours of research on these “damn gophers,” and have only come up with a paw full of information.  They are elusive creatures, indeed.  Nevertheless, I’m quite anxious to determine whether or not the gophers are still in residence, and if so, how we can work together to achieve a more harmonious yard experience for everyone.