Archive for the ‘Pets’ Category

Previously: Barry wasn’t kidding nor was the newly arrived Trank. OK, it wouldn’t have seemed possible but Pops turned even paler. Could anything be whiter than Pat Boone?

 And now: Well, yeah it could, but why go into that now? At this moment, Pops had to find a way out of this. He had tickets for the Cyndi Lauper Really Final Tour of My Career show that night and he never missed one of those. By his count, he had seen this show 53 times. Final tour…really? After Pops had a few, he would wax enthusiastically if not somewhat remorsefully how Cyndi, even in her younger years, was an overlooked and misunderstood musical genius. I don’t know… maybe he was huffing some Sterno with Polly too. But I digress, again. In the meantime, Tranks was humming happily, probably thinking about the mayhem he was about to unleash.

2564228353_bfc1736120 Polly’s “drug” of choice.

Pops looked at Tranks with wonder. I’d seen this look before and it in itself was a wonder. Pops had an idea out of this. I waited with an uneasiness to see what foolhardy thing this would be.
“That’s it!’ screamed Pops. “Let’s call Patti Page!” OK, we were all now wondering if Pops had lost it for good. Patti Page, wtf?

“Pops, what are you talking about?” we all asked. “What does she have to do with this?”

Pops, eyes gleaming with triumph answered, “When I came over to New Jersey, there was this song on the radio, ‘How much is that doggie in the window?‘ She must like dogs,  she loves animals, we’ll give ’em to her.” Ahhh, that was the song Tranks was humming mindlessly.

8343027767_85958a3247Patti Page wants to know how much the mutt costs.

As usual, when Pops has an idea, it’s probably based on a somewhat faulty historical recollection. And this one was no exception. “Uh Pops, you fool, Patti Page is dead.” snorted Polly gleefully between Sterno huffs.

“No, no, I see her on Entertainment Tonight, she’s still alive with all those animals.” Great, now Pops is channeling some screwed up TV show. Great. Just great. But, and I hate to admit this as it means Pops had had an influence on me, he might just be onto something. Thinking as Pops might, he was confusing Ms. Page with another singer of that time, Doris Day. And to the best of my knowledge and the internet, she was alive.

Fast forward a couple of days. Somehow or another, we were able to make contact with Ms. Day, a lovely lady of 91 and still a looker as far as Pops was concerned. He wanted to pack up a truck immediately and make the delivery himself. He had had the hots for her for years and he thought this would be a good opportunity to put his moves on her. Jeez, I thought the tyranny of testosterone died down at his age. Evidently not. But it was arranged, she agreed to take the mutts and give them all a home on her estate and that solved a couple of problems. Pops could keep his questionable vegetarian pizzeria open, he didn’t have to serve dogs on the menu, and Tranks got the dogs off his hands. Win, win, right? Yeah, right. No, not so easy.

2131086396_1e072e2d2c Doris Day wants the mutts.

A couple of weeks later, Tranks comes in with a new idea. Doesn’t he have any other place he can unload this crap on?

“Pops, how’d you like to be a lawyer?”

Previously: If Barry “took care” of Ahmed, I’d never have a falafel again. I had to get involved.

And now: Just what I wanted. Barry was not a favorite of mine. He was bad looking, but smelled worse. Just one affliction short of an unpleasant trifecta of human refuse. But he was there wanting his money. Well, not his actually. He was just the faceman, if you could call it that, for an even worse individual, Tranks. Yeah, like Cher he favored only one name but at least Tranks wasn’t in evidence.

This was not Barry’s regular time to come calling. So, if he was there which he was, something was up and it wasn’t going to be good. There was some good news in his presence…he didn’t want his money this visit. But he was there on Tranks business. Could this day get any worse? Uhhh, yeah.

It seems that the PETA dust-up was of Trank’s doing. He thought a diversionary tactic, such as the buffalo mozzarella cheese flap, would deflect attention from his real and much more miserable activity. Tranks was running a scam animal rescue operation. He and his gang of community college miscreants were rounding up dogs, there’s a good reason for leash laws folks, and advertising them as rescue dogs.  Hey, no overhead except for the dog food bought at Target. He commanded a high dollar for each one of these Sarah McLachlan represented pooches. Gordon Gekko once said “Greed is good.” Tranks paraphrased that to “Guilt is good.” And it paid off for a while until PETA got wind of it.

5305214442_56a5231e04 Gordon Gekko, not Tranks.

In order for Tranks to get his pups out of town, he had to stage a diversion, hence the Great Buffalo Mozzarella Protest. Damned if it didn’t work. But now Pops was branded as some heartless capitalist and animal hater. OK, he is a capitalist, but he loves dogs. Certainly not as what PETA portrayed him. That said, he wasn’t selling much vegetarian pizza these days. Thanks Tranks! But the diversion was just that for all involved. See, Barry was there to let Pops know what Tranks wanted from him now. An offer that he surely could not refuse was coming down the barrel of this gun and we were all waiting for the blast.

“Pops, Tranks likes you and wants to save you some money and make you some money. You interested?,” Barry coughed up. Those words were like music to Pops but it was the symphony he was about to regret.

Barry continued on with his phlegmy monologue, “It seems like Tranks is really missing his meat pizzas. He wants you to start offering them now.” Pops was suspicious with good reason.

From under his flour-crusted eyebrows, Pop looked at Barry and asked, “Why?”

Barry replied without giving away anything, “Because Tranks has come into quite a supply of fresh meat and wants you to start using it.”

“No, no, no, no,no!” Pop screamed. “No meat! No meat! Did you see what happened here with all those hippies protesting my pizza? No. No!”

“Well Pops, it ain’t gonna be that easy. You see, Tranks has to get rid of those dogs somehow and you’re gonna make them the specialty of the house. Get it?”

4895522092_c111398306 New specialty of the house? Stay tuned!

If Pops could have gotten any whiter, hard considering he was covered in flour, he would have passed for Pat Boone. This was not how he saw this day continuing. “Fog, son, help me with this. Polly, ahh, no forget it Polly. Fog, you, you gotta do something! Barry, you gotta be kidding right?”

Barry wasn’t kidding nor was the newly arrived Trank. OK, it wouldn’t have seemed possible but Pops turned even paler. Could anything be whiter than Pat Boone?

It’s no secret the other Bruce has a fondness for orphans, lovable losers, small cars, and stray puppies. So it should come as no surprise when Bruce, unbeknownst to me, brought home yet another stray dog. However, this was not your typical ASPCA, look-at-me-with-the sad-eyes dog to the strains of Sarah McLachlan music mutt. No, this was Frankendog.

After a lengthy argument as to whether or not we would keep it, (we did), the OCD gene kicked in and Bruce had to determine its lineage. This is of course easier said than done. One can’t just go to their local Petco and get a DIY home canine DNA kit. We had to travel 347 miles to the dog equivalent of a genetics lab who specialized in such nonsense. So, we loaded ourselves and said pooch into our trusty Pignasaurus GT and off we went in search of doggy DNA.

Now, before I go any further, let me describe Frankendog, not his real name. That has yet to be decided. The two names in the running currently are Grendel and Petey. Can you guess which one Bruce wants? Petey – aww c’mon! Frankendog is without any doubt the most unusual looking dog I’ve ever seen. I don’t need to see the results of a DNA test to know he is the bastard off-spring of some demented canine version of Dr. Moreau. He just isn’t what nature intended. Anyone who has been around dogs agrees with this description. Frankendog appears to be the result of an unholy mating of a Pomeranian with a Newfoundland dog. If these are unfamiliar to you, let me just say this – the Pom is really, really, little; the Newf is really, really, big.

Pom.

Newfoundland.

Poms yap. Newfs make a sound like something out of a Sherlock Holmes story – deep, soulful, bellows. I don’t even want to imagine the conjugal image of this creation. However, here he is. With such a hybrid, he shares a melded body, personality, and voice. The body defies easy description, but I’ll try to do it with compassion. Frankendog is almost as big as a full size Newf, but blessed/cursed with rather short front legs that give him the appearance of a jacked-up hot rod ready to leap off the starting line. The problem is when he actually tries to do that. Because of the uneven weight distribution, he usually winds up grinding his face with much injury into the pavement. When that occurs, he lets out his unique bark – it’s a keening whine followed by an emphatic cough.

But, he is incredibly smart. He already understands complex math problems. Ex: If you have three bones and you eat one, how many do you have left? He knows the answer! When certain types of music are played, he displays an unerring ear for quality – loves opera, hates rap. Likes classic rock, looks down his misshapen snout at country. And as a watchdog, has the size, sound, and terrifyingly odd look that stop miscreants from proceeding any closer to our humble abode. Lucky for us that stops these wannabe thieves for if they came any closer, they would probably just drown in his slobber.

His personality too is a contradiction. He has the gentle, good natured attitude of the Newf, but it’s punctuated by the gritty, growliness of the Pom. It’s like he’s saying “I really like you” when in reality he’s probably saying “I’d really like to bite you.” Keeping Frankendog is going to be a test of our friendship.

So, we make the trip to the lab and get the tests done. In spite of the wonders of technology, we got the results back in four days. We were told it would only take a few hours, but upon seeing the results they ran the tests over and over again as they felt they must have been wrong. What they found is what I’d already postulated – a Newf and Pom mating. There was $ 1,600.00 out the window! But that was only the start of the “good news”.

We then learned that Frankendog was only 9 months old and would not reach full physical maturity for another 2 years. It was estimated that when fully grown, Frankendog would be about 250 lbs, requiring at least one full side of beef per day to stay fed properly. Walking the Frankendog is a singularly unique experience. Were this the frozen tundra, he on his own could win the Iditarod! Try it on pavement though at your own risk. Because of all the scraped hands and knees received from trying to teach him about walking on leash, we now have a standing order for neosporin at our pharmacy.

Bruce wants so much to keep him. I so much want to ride him. But neither of those are really good options.

This is what riding Frankendog might look like.

We could put him back on the side of the road where Bruce first found him or we could get him a job as a judge on American Idol. I’m opting for the TV gig.