A Dog Tells All

Okay, I confess.  Screwing up Boomer’s surprise birthday party was partly my fault, but it was unintentional.  Here’s the story.

                Soft Touch decided that she would spring a surprise party on Boomer for his “special” birthday.  (I won’t say how many more birthdays he’s had since!)  Anyway, she invited some family members and friends to come to their house at an appointed time, just after she had abducted him under the guise of taking him to his favorite restaurant for a nice dinner, and just before she returned with him on the pretext of having forgotten the dinner-for-two coupon she planned to use to “pay” for the meal.

                As instructed, the guests arrived precisely at the scheduled time, parked in front of a neighbor’s house around the corner, and entered the house using a door key Soft Touch had provided.  

As yet another testament to my pitiful home life, I, Dexter, was imprisoned by Soft Touch.  She banished me to the utility room, presumably to keep me from spoiling her surprise, and to avoid the embarrassment I might cause by my jumping and crotch-sniffing tendencies.

What she didn’t know is that before she put me in there, I slurped from my metal water dish as though it would to be my last drink before a life sentence. In doing so, I inadvertently scooted the water dish out into the middle of the hallway that connects the kitchen to the garage.      

Anticipating the return of their host couple, the guests turned off all the lights and posted a sentry to watch for the head lights of Soft Touch’s SUV, and waited for the “Shhh!  Here they come!” signal.

They took positions behind doors, sofas, and draperies, but continued to chatter in a semi-whisper, and one of the ladies giggled like a school girl.  Finally, upon a predetermined signal, the crowd hushed and I heard the familiar sound of the garage door opening. 

As I sniffed under the utility room door to find out who was coming, I heard the hallway door open and Boomer’s familiar voice blared out.

“Who turned off all the lights?” he yelled.  Instantaneously, I heard the clanging sound of my water dish being overturned and then kicked across the ceramic tile floor. 

“ #&*@#*&!!! ”, Boomer bellowed.  “Who left the  #$%&*#$  dog dish in the middle of the   #%$%@#  hallway?”

And then…I swear to you on my Mother’s pedigree papers that this is true…not one nanosecond after those words were out of Boomer’s mouth, the lights flashed on, and the guests jumped out of hiding screaming “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!”

I think I heard Boomer mutter “What the…”, but, fortunately, folks started offering their congratulations, and he recovered enough to accept their good wishes with some modicum of sincerity.

Soft Touch came in from her vantage point in the open hallway door, gave Boomer a big hug, and asked “Were you surprised, Honey?”  I couldn’t hear Boomer’s response, and I’m glad I didn’t, but I’m sure his eye brows were raised and his neck was swelled up! 

The house was very quiet after all the guests were gone.  Soft Touch let me out of my utility room jail cell, gently patted my head and smiled, but said nothing.   In fact, conversation was scarce throughout the house.  Boomer and Soft Touch went to bed in silence.

After a few months had passed, they recalled the events of that memorable evening. I don’t recall Boomer ever remembering it with great fondness, and I know there has not been another surprise party for Boomer.

After all these years, I can’t think of a single reason to tell him about my role in the unforgettable events on his special birthday celebration.

We all have experienced lulls in the attention we get at home.  Some time back, I decided to be more pro-active,  and as a result, I have some time-tested tips to pass along.

For what it’s worth, here are ten easy steps to get exactly what you want:  (The first four are soft core guidelines.  If they fail, choose from the remaining list of hard core strategies designed for more difficult situations.)

1. Practice the “hangdog look”.  Believe it or not, hangdog is really an adjective.  (Another disparaging characterization of the canine image!)  Dictionary.com defines hangdog look as shamefaced, guilty, downcast, or intimidated.  Believe me.  Any one of those looks will get you some attention.  This is instinctive.  Use it!
2. Stare into their eyes with your brows slightly raised.  This may take some time, depending on their ability to concentrate on what they’re doing, and your ability to hold a stare.  (You pointers and setters out there will probably have more success with this one.)
3. Place your forepaw gently on their leg (big dogs), or on their foot (small dogs).  Giant dogs can place a forepaw gently on a shoulder, perhaps, but do that at your own risk, as I haven’t tested this tactic.
4. Sit up, open your mouth slightly, pant gently, and smile!  This works equally well for male and female humans.   A typical guy will notice you and shout excitedly, “Look, Claudette, dogs can actually smile!   …Claudette!  You gotta’ see this!”  A female will say, “Ooooh, look at that precious smile…Harvey, the dog just smiled at me!  Ooooh.”
5. Moan and whine, and if that doesn’t work, cough, gag and throw up!  Find a hard surface floor for easy clean-up so they won’t be too mad.  (Warning:  This is a bit risky.  After you get their attention, recover quickly (repeat # 4) to avoid being taken to the Vet’s emergency room.)
6. Roll over on your back and play dead!  If you’ve never done this, here’s what I suggest.  Go to “Google” and type in “possum.”  The United States O’Possum Society has a web site that explains in detail how possums play dead, and how that evolved from merely sulking.
7. Find junior when he’s busy with his homework.  Offer to play with him.  He’ll be glad to play to avoid doing his homework.  When he gets up from his desk, grab the pages of math problems he just finished.  Eat ‘em.  Run!
8. Pace back and forth, stopping occasionally to glance up wistfully at your “master”. Then at the appropriate moment, lift your leg in the general vicinity of mom’s newest piece of furniture.  (Warning:  This, too, is risky.  Be sure they don’t have a rolled up newspaper within easy reach.)
9. Go to the dirty clothes hamper.  Rummage around until you find a pair of panties or a bra.  Grasping it delicately in your mouth, prance through the house until you are noticed.  You will be noticed!  Run away.  When they come after you, pretend they are playing a game of tag.  When caught, resume #1.

10.  Find a human and select a leg…either leg.  Grasp it tightly with your forelegs at whatever height you size calls for.  Fanaticize, smile, and …well, do what comes naturally.  I’m sure you’ll remember what I’m talking about!

Within my circle of close friends and family, I am identified as a yellow lab.  From the list of recognized breeds on the official AKC website, however, I am designated as a Labrador Retriever.  I happen to be yellow, one of the three colors acceptable to the AKC for my breed.

 When you think about it, a dog’s official breed may tell you a good bit about the dog.  Members of my breed, for example, originated inLabrador, and have strong instincts for fetching.

 With all due respect to my fellow canines, other breed names are even more descriptive, and some are downright curious. For example, the Mexican hairless breed tells one where the dog is from and why it is so ugly.  And one knows immediately the origin and the profession of the Australian Cattle Dog and the Portugese Water Dog.

 One breed that is particularly specific is the “German Shepherd Dog”.  Yes, that is the official breed name.  I suppose it is intended to specify that this is a canine, not just an ordinary German guy who herds sheep.

 There are Long-haired and Short-haired Dachshunds, Curly-coated and Flat-Coated Retrievers, and let’s not forget the Bearded Collie.  These breed names seem to include information about these dogs’ preferences for various coiffure and facial hair styles.

 Other breed names are more intriguing than instructive.  Consider the Finnish Spitz, for example.  Doesn’t that describe what humans find it difficult to do after their mouths have been deadened for dental work?  And what about the Shih Tzu? …I think maybe that means “you clean it up” in Chinese.

 Is there a difference between the Parson Russell Terrier and the Jack Russell Terrier?  Perhaps so…but not necessarily.  What if Jack happens to be a minister? 

 But I digress.  Back to the definitive breed names.  One of my very favorites is the Wirehaired Pointing Griffon.  Creates quite a mental image, doesn’t it?

 All this leads me to something I’ve noticed about humans these days.  It seems to me that people are careful (perhaps ”politically correct” is more accurate) not to use names for each other that give out so much information.

But if humans weren’t so sensitive, they could use names for each other that would be much more instructive.

 Here are some examples.  The Nebraskan Hairless is a bald guy fromOmaha; the Chinese Collider is a bad driver fromShanghai(imagine that); the Short-armed Shyster is a lawyer who never pays; and the Louisiana Longwinded Lout is aNew Orleanspolitician.   

 Finally, borrowing from the Wirehaired Pointing Griffon breed, humans could use Frowzyhaired Nosepickin’ Griffinian as the official name for a redneck fromGriffin,Georgia.

 But then what do I know?  I’m just a dog.

Boomer’s bank has figured out that the way to his deposits is through his dog.  In fact, Boomer has taken me with him to the bank so often, the tellers actually refer to him as “the man with the dog”. 

Of course, I love to ride in Boomer’s SUV wherever he goes, but I’m especially fond of trips to the bank because they give out tasty dog biscuits to all their favorite canine customers.  In the summer time when Boomer lets me stick my head out the window, I give them my excitedly-expectant look, and drool.  That usually gets me two or three treats.

As we approach the drive-thru window, I can hear the bank employees’ comments:  “Look, it’s the man with the dog!”  Or, “Hurry, Sheri, get that bucket of dog treats…the dog is already drooling on the side of the SUV.” 

Sometimes I wonder if the name on Boomer’s checking account isn’t Boomer at all.  Most likely, the account reads “The Man with the Dog.”  Boomer probably signs his checks that way, too, or maybe they let him sign TMWTD as a courtesy.

If the bank and Boomer were smart, they would let me have my own account.  Boomer needs to give me an allowance, anyway, and with a savings account, I wouldn’t have to bury my money in the back yard.  (Here’s another reason I need a Social Security Number.)

One trip to the bank in mid-winter was particularly memorable.  Instead of driving into the lane next to the bank as he usually does, Boomer drove into lane three—a station with one of those clear containers that gets sucked up into the bank through a plastic tube.   The weather wasn’t fit for open windows, so I was sitting in the passenger seat drooling on the console and the gear shifter. 

The attending teller was Sheri, a young, good-looking  blonde, and the one who really likes me the best.   She saw us pull in just ahead of other customers in lanes one and two.  We could hear her sweet welcome clearly over the loud-speaker at our station.  “Hello, how may I help you,” she began.  Then, spotting me sitting there beside Boomer, she continued.  “Oh, hi sweetie!  Would you like a treat!” 

Customers in the two lanes between us and the bank building could see Boomer, but they could not see me sitting in the passenger seat.  They turned to check out the customer Sheri was calling “Sweetie”, and they probably wondered why they had never been offered a treat. 

But Sheri wasn’t done with her syrupy greeting.  “You are soooo handsome,” she gushed.  “I’m sending you a whole handful of treats”…and then she made loud kissing sounds that echoed over the loud speaker for all to hear.

“I’d like to come out there and tickle your ears,” she continued, and then she made more of the SMOOCHING sounds.  Now I was getting embarassed. 

Boomer slid down in his seat, painfully aware that all the passengers in the other two cars were staring at him.  I don’t understand why he didn’t relish the moment.  But he hunkered down and placed his left hand up to block his face like an arrested perp being hauled off to jail in front of the TV cameras. 

At his age, he ought to be thrilled that someone would think a female was noticing him at all.  He could have stuck out his chest, smiled, and said, “Why thank you, Sheri.  You look great, too…and thank you for the treats…and the phone number!  I’ll call.”

Instead, Boomer hurriedly collected his deposit slip, put the SUV in gear and sped away.  I laid down flat in my seat to remain concealed from view.  I didn’t want to spoil an appropriate ending to my best trip the bank ever.

Sometime back, Boomer is read a book by Rick Warren entitled The Purpose Driven Life: What on Earth Am I Here For?  It is a book written to help Boomer and other humans understand why they were born, and to discover God’s plan for their lives. 

So far, Boomer is struggling with the core premise of the book (that God created him for a specific purpose). As usual, he is stressing out, ranting and raving to Soft Touch and anyone else who’ll listen about how goofy this author is, and how he could write a better book (although I think he’s only made it through chapter three).

Boomer’s problem (one of his many problems) is that he’s afraid that even if he has a purpose in life, he’ll never discover what it is.  My take on it is that like many other men, he suffers from having too many choices.

I, on the other hand, know without a shadow of a doubt why I was put here on earth.  I’m a dog.  I was put here to be a dog.  That’s all I know how to do and there’s little question about what’s on my daily “to do” list to fulfill my destiny.

When I get up in the morning, Boomer takes me out to relieve myself, sniff out the daily news for dogs, and fetch the paper so Boomer will have his morning news (and those stupid crossword puzzles). 

During the rest of the day as opportunities arise, I will lick Boomer’s hand and wag my tail approvingly to show the affection and support that he so desperately needs, curl up next to Soft Touch (on the sofa if she’ll let me), chase squirrels, possums, rabbits, armadillos, and other varmints that come in my territory, roll in anything Boomer considers to be vile and odorous, and of course, eat, sleep, and fetch.

I am a dog. I know the nature and character of being a dog, and as a dog, I know what God put me on earth to do.

Boomer could learn many lessons from me if he paid attention.  He’s afraid to acknowledge that God has a purpose for him on this earth for fear that he’ll lose his freedom of choice.  (It’s the “predestination” issue.) 

I was predestined to be a dog.  I cannot change that, nor would I if I could.  Cannot imagine being a cat! But I am free to act as I choose within the framework of the canine existence.  As a dog, I like to lie down every chance I get.  I prefer to lie down on soft things…like sofas, for example. 

Boomer knows that, too.  However, Boomer doesn’t pre-ordain when I lie down, or what I choose to lie on.  In fact, Boomer gives me some confusing rules to follow.  I finally figured out that one sofa is okay to lie on, but another sofa is strictly taboo.  Boomer rants and raves and puts me in time out when he finds me on the outlawed sofa.  So, yeah, I make mistakes sometimes, and the urge to lie down on that soft sofa is too great too pass up.

I think Boomer likes to lie down on soft things, too.  I’m sure there are some soft things Boomer is allowed to lie down on, and probably lots of other soft things he’s supposed to avoid.  I’ve never asked Boomer if he’s ever been swatted with a rolled up newspaper or locked in the bathroom for lying down on the wrong soft thing.

So if Boomer ever asks me, here’s what I’ll tell him.  “Boomer, you’re a human.  First you need to come to grips with the nature and character of human beings.  Sadly, you will never have the privilege of being a dog like me.  However, as a human, you, like me, will get to make your own choices.  And like me, you’ll make mistakes as you continually try to remember which soft things you are allowed to lie down on.”

Once that sinks in, I’ll tell Boomer the “rest of the story”, as Paul Harvey would say.  Here it is. 

“As a human, you have been created in God’s image which means that you have been endowed with the capacity to be God-like.  As an aside, let me hasten to interject that I believe dogs are created in the image of God, too…with the possible exception of Chihuahuas.  Furthermore, having become a Christian means that you have freely accepted a new, more clearly defined nature and character that defines who you are and how you should behave.

Even as a Christian, your decisions are not pre-ordained, nor are they determined in real time by God.  To fulfill his purpose for your life, however, you are supposed to act in ways that are consistent with the true nature and character of a Christ-like existence.” 

My last message for Boomer is this.  “You are lucky.  God did not send his heavenly canine to earth to show me which soft things I shouldn’t lie down on.  But Jesus Christ was sent to earth in the form of a human to give you an example of God-like behavior, and to relieve you of the burden of your human frailties.  He knew you would lie down on the wrong soft things!”

Boomer and all the other humans on earth have too many choices.  I’m glad I’m a dog.

Yes, football season is finally here again, and I’ll be watching with Boomer.  Usually, I am neither a complainer nor a crusader.  But here’s an issue that has me as mad as a wet cat.  On behalf of canines everywhere, I protest the paucity of athletic teams that have dogs as mascots.  Don’t challenge me on this.  I’ve done my homework.

 I Googled this topic and found the following canine mascots:  Bloodhounds, Boxers, Bulldogs (very popular—38 college teams), Greyhounds, Salukis, Setters, Terriers, and yes, there is at least one team called the Retrievers.

You’re probably thinking, “What’s the problem?  That seems like plenty of dogs…and besides, who wants a team called the Poodles?” 

Well, OK, I’ll concede that a team of toy poodles wouldn’t pose much of a threat, and neither would cocker spaniels, beagles, daschunds, welsch corgis,lhasaapsos, or pekingese.  A Bichon Frise wouldn’t exactly cause great trepidation, either. 

What a rousing welcome for the home team that runs onto the field as the crowd roars “Rip ‘em up! Tear ‘em up!  Give ‘em Hell, Shih Tzus!”

Like I said, I’m not on a crusade for my own breed.  After all, if a Retriever receiver caught a long pass, he would immediately return it to the quarterback.

But I digress.  Consider some non-canine mascots and ask yourself if they are any more fearsome and powerful. 

        Anteaters—I suppose that’s a good name if your opponent is called the “Ants”.

        Armadillos—Perhaps they play night games only, and fare well against the “Grubs”.

        Ten college teams are called “Beavers”!  What’s their favorite cheer?  “…Three cheers for the Beav’s, we’ll gnaw down your trees!  Hooray for our team, we’ll dam up your stream!”  I never could grasp the …Oh, well, that’s probably enough said about Beavers.

                And what about all the teams named for birds?  Some are formidable, to be sure:  Eagles, Falcons, and Hawks, perhaps.  But do you fear Black Birds, Blue Jays, Cardinals, Ducks, Owls, Peacocks and Hens…even the dreaded Blue Hen?

        Some teams aren’t animals at all.  For example, Demons and Deacons are most likely natural foes.  But the Demon Deacons figured out how to be on both sides of that match up.

        What has me really frosted is that members of the cat family are so popular…Bobcats, Cougars, Jaguars, Leopards, Lions, Lynx, Panthers, Pumas, Tigers and Wildcats.  Quite a list, but please note that none of these are exactly housecats.  These species remain untamed and bear little resemblance to Abyssinian, Manx, Persian, Siamese, and Sphynx breeds (just to name a few).

        Except for wolves and coyotes, our ancestors, we dogs are much more refined, and perhaps that’s why teams shy away from us in choosing a mascot.

                But here is a list of potential candidates for new teams out there in sports land looking for a mascot.  How about the Mastiff, Great Dane, Wolfhound, or the Rottweiler?   And I thought of the wonderful Doberman Pinscher.  

                Here is the official AKC description of this breed from their website.  “Compactly built, muscular and powerful, for great endurance and speed. Elegant in appearance, of proud carriage, reflecting great nobility and temperament. Energetic, watchful, determined, alert, fearless, loyal and obedient.   What more could one want?

                On second thought, perhaps the name is just a bit too long.  I can hear the cheerleaders begin their chant, “Give me a D!  Give me an O!  Give me a B!….”  By the time they got to “Give me an R” to finish spelling Pinscher, the game would be over.  Too bad!

Why should Boomer and Soft Touch be surprised that I hang out at the table while they eat a meal?  After all, with minor exceptions, the food they eat is tasty and its aroma draws me to their chairs like fleas to my belly.

And why shouldn’t it be better than what they put in my bowl?  First of all, they eat meat.  Beef, pork, fish, and lots of chicken…chicken is my favorite!  I can smell raw chicken as soon as it comes out of its plastic wrap.  

Boomer even acknowledges this fact.  He says, “Dexter, you can smell chicken a mile away!”  (But you should understand that Boomer is given to exaggeration, and he doesn’t realize that I know the difference between a foot and a mile.)

Second, Soft Touch and Boomer actually take time to season and cook their food, and sometimes they even make gravy!  Ahh, GRAVY!!  White milk gravy, brown beef gravy, au jus gravy, tomato gravy…I love any gravy. 

 Even if they don’t have enough chicken to share, they could give me a whole meal of nothing but gravy!  What’s the problem?  …it’s already in a bowl!

Oh, but here comes the really sad part of this story.  You guessed it.  It involves good ole Boomer… although I’ll have to give him credit—he does feed me regularly. 

Typically, he’ll head to the garage where he keeps my dry, scientifically formulated, pebble-shaped dog food.  (His food is in the pantry or the refrigerator…mine is in the garage!  What does that tell you?). He walks through the kitchen, drumming his fingers on the bottom my dish to make annoying metallic sounds, and asks, “Dex, are you hungry for some breakfast/supper?”  (That’s another thing—I get only two meals a day.)  Of course, I’m hungry.  It’s been 12 hours since I last ate.

One day he returned to the kitchen with my food, placed my dish on the counter by the sink, and turned on the water.  Letting it run through his fingers for several seconds, he finally caught a hand full of water and threw it on my food.  Then, as he did it again, he sang out, “GRAAAVY TRAAAIN!”  (It’s never a good thing when Boomer remembers a TV ad he’s seen.)  Then, as he walked to place my dish of dog food swimming in water…er, I mean…gravy in its proper spot by the back door; he had the audacity to declare, “Hey, Dex.  You’re getting a special treat today.  I put some gravy on your food!” 

Gravy?  Are you kidding me?  You seriously think I don’t know the difference between water and gravy?  I’m as devoted to Boomer as any dog could be, but frankly, sometime I wonder why.

Here’s my wish.  This will remain my dream until the day I die.  Someday, I can only hope that Soft Touch will prepare a sumptuous feast for Boomer—perhaps a menu consisting of chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, and hot biscuits…and gravy!  That thick, rich, brown gravy made in the same skillet used to cook the chicken-fried steak. 

On her plate, I hope Soft Touch will place ample portions of steak, potatoes, and freshly-opened steaming biscuits, and cover every bit of it with dripping ladles of hot gravy.

Then to make my lifelong dream come true, on Boomer’s plate, she will place ample portions of steak, potatoes, and freshly-opened steaming biscuits.  Then, she’ll walk to the sink, turn on the water and let it run ‘til it’s good and hot. 

The magic moment will be when I see the look on Boomer’s face when she throws a couple of handfuls of hot water all over his food and shouts, “GRAAAVY TRAAAIN!”

 Dogs can dream, too!

          Back at home after my most recent annual check-up, Boomer sat down to review the itemized bill from my doctor (Boomer refers to him as a veterinarian, but to me he’s just a plain ole doctor).  I heard him muttering as he ran his finger over each of the services: “Exam with Vaccinations – uh huh; stool exam –Yeah, good; rabies canine – uh huh; Leptospira – uhh…sounds good; bordetella – sounds like an Italian wine, but I remember that from before; heartworm test – I know what that is; express anal glands – huh?  What in blazes are anal glands, and why do they need to be expressed?”  Boomer squealed in his excited, high-pitched voice.  I knew he’d have more questions.

            “Dexter, I can’t believe I have to pay for you to get your butt glands expressed,” Boomer blurted on cue.  “I understand about heartworm and rabies; and leptospira and bordetella sound somewhat legit, but anal gland expression?  What’s the deal with that?”

            “Just Google ‘anal glands in dogs’,” I barked, cocking my head slightly.  “That’ll at least get us started.”

            Boomer grabbed his laptop and obeyed my command…I love it when that happens! 

            “Aha, here we go,” he said…“your dog’s anal glands.”   Then he read aloud – I suppose to let me know he had actually found something.  “With the passing of each stool, pressure is placed on a gland located on each side of your dog’s anus.  Every dog’s secretion has a unique identifying odor.  That is one of the reasons dogs sniff each other’s rear ends when they meet.”  Boomer glanced at me with his eyebrows raised, and his nose turned up.  “Man, I’m glad humans don’t do that!” he affirmed.

            Then he continued to read about how to express the anal glands to prevent them from becoming impacted.  He was convinced.

            “Wow,” he exclaimed.  “I had no idea.  I’d pay twice what they charged me to keep from having to do that myself.”

            I should have left it there.  Usually, I abide by the unwritten rule that what happens in the Vet Clinic stays in the Vet Clinic, but like I said, Boomer has a lot to learn.

            “Don’t worry,” I blurted out.  “They get their money’s worth in other ways.  You have no idea what goes on behind closed doors, but I’m about to tell you.”

              Here’s the story I told him:   The doctor had finished his examination, and I had bravely endured all the vaccinations.  They had weighed me and poked, squeezed, flexed, pinched and thumped various parts of my body, and they had listened to all my organs through the stethoscope.  Everything was done, and the doctor asked his assistant to lower the examining table back to the floor.  Abruptly, he said, “Wait!  We forgot to express Dexter’s anal glands.”

            Is it a surprise that the assistant gets to do this job?  Not to me.  Dutifully, she lifted my tail over my back — at least one notch further than it is supposed to go.  With the thumb and forefinger of her other hand, she squeezed (not so gently) just below my anus (that means butt hole, Boomer).  Unfortunately, my anal glands must have been engorged with my aromatic fluid.  Instead of oozing out, my canine cologne squirted out like a gusher.  Most unfortunately for the doctor, my rear end was pointed directly at him, and he took it on the arm of his freshly laundered shirt.

            “That smell’s great,” I thought.  “I wish all my friends from the neighborhood were here!”

            “*#&@#*,” yelled the vet, apparently not nearly as pleased with my scent.  “Look what you’ve done!  I’ll have to go home and change clothes…I’ll probably have to throw this shirt away.”

            The doctor pivoted and ran out of the room, leaving me with my tail still being held over my back by the wide-eyed assistant.  “She won’t get away with that,” we heard him yell from the adjacent examining room.

            In an instant, he burst through the door holding an unsuspecting Chihuahua female with her business end pointed directly at the assistant.  Finally, I understood why Chihuahuas’ eyes bug out and they act like they’ve had far too much caffeine.  At the drop of a hat, they can be snatched up and used as a portable hand gun in an anal secretion battle. 

            The unfortunate assistant had a stationary canon that was all out of ammo (me), to fight a battle with theChihuahua wielding doctor.  She tried to shield herself from the onslaught as the vet cradled his little hairy pistol under one arm and squeezed her little anus with the fingers of his other hand. 

            Luckily for the assistant, the feared projectile turned out to be a dud.  Instead of squirting out, the little dog’s liquid bullets oozed forth and dripped unceremoniously onto the other sleeve of the doctor’s shirt.  Clearly despondent but without another word, the doc left the room, now gently cuddling the Chihuahua.  The battle was over, and I was proud to be on the winning side.

            When I had finished telling my story to Boomer, he was dumbfounded.  “Don’t ever tell me about what happens at the clinic again,” he instructed, shaking his head.  Then after a brief pause, he stood up and glared at me.  “Aha,” he shouted.  “Now I understand that horrible smell…that butt leak of yours that got into the leather upholstery of my new 4-Runner!  It took me three weeks and a gallon of Armor All to get the smell out.”

            Now, Boomer makes sure to take me to the vet for an anal expression every three months or every 3,000 miles, which ever comes sooner.

Dogs have many of the same bodily functions and physical needs that are experienced by humans.  Why are some humans shocked by that news?  I’m not talking about our need to breathe, ingest food and water, and expel waste.  I’m talking gas!  Yes, for you uninitiated readers out there, we get gas just as you do, and sometimes, we pass our gas…just as you do. 

I am trained to behave in a proper manner especially when we have company, and I try to be discrete always.  But it happens.  When I was a pup I had more control over my sphincters, but as I have aged I seem to let it slip more often.  It happens.  Just between us, I’m pretty sure Boomer is having the same problem…in dog years he’s going on 10!

Back to my original premise — why are Soft Touch and Boomer surprised when I break wind?  I’ll never forget the first time they experienced one of my SBD gaseous expulsions.  I was resting on the floor along side the sofa on which Soft Touch was stretched out as she watched TV.  Boomer was nearby, slumped down in his favorite easy chair with his feet propped up on an ottoman.

I was so relaxed!  Soft Touch had switched the TV from CNN where commentators on opposite sides of some political issue rudely yelled at each other, to some inane game show that didn’t stress me out.  Finally, I felt relaxed…perhaps too relaxed!

Suddenly, the only remaining pressure in my body was released.  Aah!  That felt good!  Not fully aware of what I had done, here’s what I heard:

“Sniff, sniff…Oh my Lord!” Soft Touch cried out.  “That’s awful!  Did you forget where the bathroom is?”

“What?  …what are you talking about?  …Sniff, sniff…Good grief!  Hey, don’t blame that on me!  That’s coming from over there!  …It’s bad enough to do it, but it’s really low-down to try to blame me!”

“Me?  I didn’t do anything!  …You’re the one who insisted on having the burrito for supper.  That’s the worst thing I’ve smelled since that possum died in our basement.  You should be ashamed of …!”

“I’m not ashamed of anything, because I didn’t do it.  Besides, you know that I’m perfectly willing to claim responsibility for my gas-offs…especially one that bad!  Up at the hunting camp with the guys, I’d be proud of something like that.”

“Well, I know I didn’t do it, and if you are telling the truth, who did it?  You can’t deny that somebody did something!”

I don’t know why I couldn’t have continued to lie there and pretend to sleep.  Why, at that very moment did I raise my head and look so guilty? 

“Dexter?  …Oh, Dexter, no!”  cried Soft Touch.  “I think Dexter did it,” she said in disbelief.

“That’s possible, I suppose,” agreed Boomer.  “…and come to think of it, I did give him a couple of bites of my bean burrito.”

Since that little episode, Soft Touch and Boomer are no longer surprised.  I guess you’d say I’ve blown my cover.  (Sorry, no pun intended.)  But for you canine readers whose families have yet to discover your facility for flatulence, use it for your own amusement.  Here are some tips for some unadulterated fun with the family:

1.  Lie down close to a female member of the family.  Females are less likely to expect an odorous emanation from a dog, and they are more likely to be embarrassed by being blamed.
2. If you don’t have a “Boomer” who’ll share some of his burrito, eat all beans that fall from the dinner table, and finally,
3. Relax…relax…relax those sphincter muscles.  And when you feel relieved, keep your eyes closed and feign sleep.  Enjoy the ensuing conflict, and smile in secret!

Without fail, I take Boomer for a good walk at least twice a day.  It is another of our rituals that keeps him happy and helps to fill his otherwise boring life.  He thinks he’s taking me for these walks, but of course I and all the neighbors know otherwise.

I sniff out all the news releases left behind by my friends…sort’a like a daily neighborhood newsletter amongst us dogs.  And I leave my little snippets of “news” along the way to let my friends know I’m still up and about. 

Boomer is generally good-natured about all this.  Except on rare occasions, he is patient, allowing me to take my time.  Sometimes, though, he jerks my leash and says something like, “Dexter, you’ve already done that fourteen times!  There couldn’t possibly be anything left in there for you to expel.  Do you have a set of auxiliary bladders?” 

My experience of walking Boomer leaves me with two burning questions:  (1) Why doesn’t he get pleasure out of sniffing like I do, and (2) why doesn’t Boomer mark his territory?

Here’s what I have concluded.  First, Boomer is olfactorily challenged.  Never have I seen him sniff out one of his friends when they meet.  And it’s clear that his friends honor his inability to sniff, because none of them has ever offered to sniff him out either. 

Unfortunately, they grab each other’s hand for a couple of seconds, and then stand and chat incessantly, while I must obediently cool my haunches.  What a shame.  It takes them so long to exchange information.  A few good whiffs would do the trick in much less time.  Quite frankly, I don’t think Boomer could sniff his way home if his life depended on it. 

The only purpose served by Boomer’s sense of smell is to discriminate between substances he wants to eat and those he would never eat.  For example, fresh rabbit stew with Cajun seasonings?  …smells good to Boomer.  He’d eat it!  But three-day-old rabbit road kill?  …smells bad to Boomer.  Not only would he not eat it, he would be irate if I rolled in it.  Go figure.

On to my second question.  Why has Boomer never marked his territory?  How will others know he has been there?  How will they know he has been well-fed?  How will they know he has recovered from his recent bladder infection?

Recently, on our regular 9:00 p.m. walk down our quiet cul-de-sac, I followed my usual routine.  I stopped at the mail box, sniffed briefly, and hunkered down to empty my primary bladder.  (As Boomer suspected, dogs have two bladder systems—one for primary urinary function, and a separate set of innumerable auxiliary sacs that can be activated ad hoc for marking purposes. 

With the first job done, I proceeded to my more important ritual: sniff, pee, move up one tree—sniff, pee, move up one tree—sniff, pee, move…well, I guess you get the picture.

I wasn’t paying any mind to Boomer.  I moved to my next tree.  As I began to sniff, I caught a whiff of Boomer’s “aura.”  Holy Dog Do!  There was Boomer relieving himself on the south side of my favorite tree!  At first I was aghast…but then I thought, “Son-of-a …!  Atta-boy, Boomer!  Way to go!” 

I was thrilled.  Boomer had finally caught on.  Maybe Boomer was well on his way to following my example.  What an improvement that would be in his lifestyle!  I couldn’t wait to see if some of Boomer’s friends would come along the next day to sniff out his markings.  I was one proud pup!

Alas, I was wrong.  Boomer never did that again, and to my knowledge, none of Boomer’s friends knew he had done it that time.  Boomer regressed to his old, uneducated life style.  Alas, he will never know the joys of what could have been! 

(Afterthought:  I do kind’a understand why he might not want to sniff out old Miz Chickenlips!)