It’s a Dog’s World Out There

“Dog-gone-it!” I barked out after dropping another hot dog into the campfire.

Molly, my faithful Springer Spaniel, perked up her ears at that outburst and replied, “You don’t know how much that annoys me.”

“Yeah,” I said. That’s the third one I lost tonight.”

With a twitch of her head, Molly flipped one of her long floppy ears back out of her eyes. “That’s not what I’m talking about.” Her ear fell back into place. “I mean, dogs get no respect these days.”

I stabbed another hot dog onto the stick and proceeded to roast it.

Molly continued. “They take a bunch of garbage meat that cannot be made into anything else, pack it in a casing, and call it a ‘hot dog.’ Why can’t they name it something else?”

By this time my hot dog was roasted to a golden-brown color. “You want a piece?” I asked while taking a bite. “As they say, ‘It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there.’ Ha ha ha.”

 “You may think it’s funny,” Molly said, “but I don’t.”

“Oh, I see a little tail-wag there.”

Molly stretched out and rubbed her back on the ground. “It’s the brandy. The tail gets a mind of its own.”

“Now that you mention it,” I said to Molly, “my great grandfather, Moses Nolan, was known to have said, ‘Only mad dogs and Englishmen work in the noon-day sun.’”

“Aye, ‘ere’s no finer Irishman ‘an Moses Nolan.” Molly said. Her brogue needed some work.

“Yep.” I agreed. “Right off the boat from the Emerald Island. And I know for a fact that he didn’t work in the noon-day sun.”

“I don’t think he worked at all. He never finished building that outhouse, did he?” Molly asked between scratching for fleas.

“Some more brandy will be good for that,” I said.

Molly sat up. “For the outhouse?”

“No, for your fleas.”

Molly poured another round into our brandy snifters. “Does this mean the outhouse still won’t be finished even in your life-time?”

“Probably not,” I said. “There’s too much Irish in me.”

“Well, dogs do like to work,” Molly reminded me. “And work nobly, too”

“Doing what?” I questioned.

“There are watch dogs, seeing eye dogs, and police dogs, to name a few.”

“So ‘working like a dog’ and ‘doggin’ it’ are complimentary toward your noble species?’

“Don’t patronize me, I’m the underdog here.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I guess it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.”

“There you go again. Is this any way to treat man’s best friend?”

“I’m sorry. My bark is worse than my bite, and you really are a lucky dog.”

Molly tossed another wood-burning cat onto the fire, sending flickers of flame high up into the dark sky. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

“You’re beee-you-ti-full, mate,” I say. “Especially when flushing up a brace of partridge.”

Then why is it that an ugly person is called a ‘dog face?’”

“They’re jealous,” I muttered trying to sound supportive. “It’s only their breath that smells.”

Our conversation continued, verbally chasing our tails until the last dying embers of our campfire flickered out. Then, dog-tired, Molly made one last request before slipping off into that dream world of partridge heaven where only dogs are allowed in. So, before I end up in the doghouse and leave here with my tail between my legs, Molly asked me to ask you that when you say your prayers tonight, say a little one for your pooch. Because, as she reminded me, it’s a dog’s world out there.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays

I simply could not mentally take the Christmas letters people sent to me anymore; each one espousing life in their perfect home with the most beautiful/handsome spouse on earth, working their dream job, and sharing the joys of parenting their overachiever children. A rusty fork stuck in my eye would have been less painful to me than reading another unsolicited Christmas letter. So, I started to write my own Christmas letters telling how the past year really was – in short, my family put the “fun” in “dysfunctional.” A few years later my letters morphed into something beyond family. “It’s a Dog’s World Out There” is one of those Christmas letters. Eventually I stopped writing Christmas letters altogether when friends and extended family realized what was living in my head that manifest itself through my computer keyboard during the wee hours of the night. There was talk of locking me up. But let’s keep that just between us…