A little poodle problem
September 6, 2012
My fat basset hound scratched her way on top of me as I was reading in my recliner, her breath a mixture of week-old tuna and natural gas. Oblivious to my screeches, she clawed and grappled her way onto my stomach, pushed my book aside with her nose and gave out an enormous belch.
“What?” I said, “It’s been a half hour since you ate. You can’t be hungry.”
“No,” she said, “I’m worried because Advocates chose Clint Eastwood for the closing speech of the Grand Dog convention and as the reigning Grand Dame, I’m worried that people will think that I’m the imaginary punching-bag in the chair.”
“Come on, something like that couldn’t happen twice. It’s like Howard Dean’s scream. Clint just had too much testosterone for breakfast. Besides, when you announced you weren’t running again, you collapsed your opponents’ entire platform of making sure you were a one-term Grand Dog. They were barking up the wrong tree then and they’ve been chasing their tails since.”
“So,” she growled, “they bought the story that I declined to run for a second term because I wanted to spend more quality time with my family?”
“Of course not. But the trade-off is that they won’t be hounding you after that little peccadillo with the poodle in the secretary pool. They’ve got bigger dogs to fry now in the last three days of the contest. Any dirt coming across the fire hydrant about the other candidates?”
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“I’m glad you asked. Some rabid fan claims that Farfalla is actually a sheep. And get this, they say he starred in that faraway shot in “Brokeback Mountain.”
“Not the one where …” I hesitated.
“Yup,” she barked, “that very one.”
“Oooh, that’s catty. Anything else?”
“Well,” she said, “That hunka-hunka burning love-mutt, Sirus, owns a fancy red Saab but last week he got all wound up and accidentally ate his license. He’s greatly embarrassed but really, he was a terrible driver anyway.”
“Isn’t there a contestant named Scruffy?”
She grinned, “The car-wash mitt? I hear he’s trying to tap into the RainEx superpac.”
“I understand there’s even a fish.”
“Ha-ha, you go off all the time about me being stubborn. Herman’s not even a dogfish and he won’t sit or stay and never comes when he’s cod.”
“Freeta, dear, you simply must stop.”
“Bella Cribari-French is running, and so is Ocho, the French bulldog. I’m a French basset hound. We must all get together and oui-oui sometime!”
The Grand Dog contest ends Sunday. If you haven’t voted for your favorite pet, you are in grave risk of falling into that class of people known as “selfish, insensitive clods.” Before this happens to you, go online at: http://www.gcadvocates.org/candidates.htm where you may meet all the candidates and vote for your favorite dog, underdog, sheep or fish as the case may be.
This is a race that doesn’t go to the swift; the winners are Grand County Advocates and Pet Pals, who share all the proceeds. The mutt gets to wear a fancy collar for a couple of years.