I'm Snowy. I'm a Scratchaholic

Months of reflection have convinced me that, yes, it's time to come clean. I, Snowy, am a scratchaholic. Normally I really wouldn't care (and I certainly don't have fleas), but my human person mom is driving me crazy, yelling things like "Stop that scratching!" It's true, I like to scratch near my left ear, I scratch on my paws (they're so full of things from the grass, it's lovely), and I like to scratch right near my tail if I can squiggle my body around that far. Human person mom has tried everything to get me to stop, vicious tasting cream, a horrible hard plastic thingy for around my neck, and finally - the most insulting thing at all - she hired a trainer.

This trainer girl was a serious alpha dog, even though she was shortish and thinnish and quite pretty. Yes, she does dominate, my friends, through the gruesome stare of her eyes and the appalling voice with which she shouts, "Sit, Stay, Down!" It makes me feel so worthless, but down I go.

None of this worked, of course, so finally the trainer announced that it's probably okay because scratching "releases endorphins." Now I personally have no idea who or what endorphins are - maybe some strange looking fish or possibly aliens? But I say whoever you are out there - endorphins - run free. We release you to caper about all you want. It really would be terrific if you were aliens. Then I could tell my friends that you chose me as your first canine contact. Que cool!  

Human person should be glad I'm not like the dog who just spent $62.50 playing his master's XBox. Face it, scratching is free - and very freeing.

Bites & Kisses

Cheerio Paterson here - it's me, the Maltese who's the official state dog of New York. On July 18th, some disgraceful human at the New York Times wrote that I ran "in furious circles around senior legislative staff members, barking at them scoldingly." What would you have done?  These are the guys who locked each other out of the state legislature and shut it down for a month this summer. Several Democratic Senators did all kinds of illegal stuff, and one kept switching parties. Where's a pack leader when we need one? 

However, to show my sincerity, I've stepped back and taken a longer look and decided that for every bite man deserves, many deserve a kiss at the same time. So take a look at my Bites and Kisses list (tentative):

 Eliot Spitzer gets a bite for refusing to walk with his Bichon right after he resigned. Just didn't look manly enough to tart about with a little white dog. Hey buddy, how about sucking the toes of a prostitute? How does that look?  He gets a kiss, though, for taking it like a man, going right back on T. V. (after a decent interval of wailing, weeping, gnashing of teeth and expensive therapy) Anyone and everyone got to take a shot at him for his "proclivities." He behaved like a stand-up guy, answered any and all questions, didn't duck a thing. Smooooch!

Father of Balloon Boy - wow, one huge bite because I saw your video on YouTube in which you untethered your OWN BALLOON. And you cursed out your wife for not letting it go. But a nice wet kiss because that balloon kicked butt. It flew two hours all by its little old self.

Michelle Obama,. Unfortunately a big bite because of all those belts you're wearing. How do you spell "frumpy?" A huge smacker though for your lovely black dress and pearls. Now that's class. I'm gonna lick your nose!

For the press, who are shamefully neglecting the new "It" girl, Brooke Elliott, star of drop Dead Diva - they get a bite the size of Pittsburgh. She's beautiful, funny, voluptuous - I can't go on enough. She's a woman to love. Where's all the ink for this girl? Magazine covers, who's she dating, where's TMZ when we really need them. Get cracking paps, and you'll get the biggest old kiss ever.

So that's how the world rolls: good and bad, black and white, yin and yang, warp and woof. Quel headache. Pass me a kibble, Governor Paterson.

Heaven

Gidget and I are up here now in doggy heaven - this is me - Chanel - and we are enjoying ourselves mightily. My favorite foods on the earthly plane were butter, stolen from countertops, and Reese's peanut butter cups. Thank God (and I'm not kidding about that) I get to eat all I want up here. Just shows that the importance of a good diet is somewhat overrated! Gidget eats burritos, plus tomatillo sauce.

I've heard there's a dog in New Iberia, Louisiana, Max, claiming he's way older than I. I have only one thing to say to that, "Bite me!" Besides who wants to fight over being older? Younger yes, older no. I always lied about my age, and so should you.

Gidget and I have been jawing about the bad rap small dogs get. Some say we're yippy, and yappy, and piddle on the floor, and in general strike fear into the hearts of men because they don't want to be seen walking us. It threatens their masculinity, presumably. I say pish and tosh to that. Big dogs smell, they slobber, and they have an extremely limited vocabulary. Golden retrievers say "Where's the ball?" Black labs, well, any kind of lab, say "Where's the food?"

R.I.P. Gidget

Goodbye to little Gidget, the Taco Bell spokesdog, who elevated all small dogs to the rank of winner, Alpha for sure. A Chihuahua, Gidget was fifteen when she passed. Who will ever forget the immortal lines, "Yo quiero Taco Bell?" It just shows that there are no small dogs, only small people, and I ought to know. I send this missive from the Governor's mansion in Albany, New York. Yes, I am THAT Cheerio. Recent headline about me - "Bite-sized Biter Bites Again!" As if, but that's for another post. Right now, it's about Gidget, no bottom bitch at all but a "consummate pro," according to her trainer. 

You can be short, skinny, vaguely weird-looking, but you can earn millions (of biscuits), have a major career, and spend hours chomping on beef burritos. Now that's living!

A shout-out to you, Gidget, from another small but mighty dog, Cheerio.

pit bull vs palin

  Pit Bulls everywhere shuddered at Sarah Palin's incredibly insensitive remarks about our human counterparts.  

  Loose lips Sarah...  compared  to soccer moms we are the most relaxed and gentle of creatures.  And some of us have even been known to apply a little mouth candy and a wisp of blush where it can do the most good. Nothing offsets a good snarl than a double coat of Revlon's fire engine red.

   You should know that you appear in our hall of shame right after Michael Vick.  Howls of joy around the animal planet greeted your decision to give Alaskan's a break and concentrate on higher things.  Pick on Great Danes why don't you?  

book group for bonzo

Hey girlfriend or girlsie or whatever your name is.  Trouble here.  I have to say these literary guys know their way around a pooch.  I have been sitting here in my padded boudoir watching all those so called reality shows and nary a dog in sight. I mean they are there as accessaries but not one juicy power role. I think we should start a book group and catch up on our literary brothers and sisters.  I hear there are whole books devoted to us dogs and poetry too. What do you say ?  Lassie any one???

Reading Matter for Dogs

Girlsie here again. I've been reading (make that trying to read) Samuel Beckett's novel Molloy. Alas, I've only gotten to page 12, but now I'm seriously fired up. Beckett describes a man taking a walk with his dog, the little thing "stopping, turning in slow circles, giving up and then, a little further on, beginning all over again. "Constipation is a sign of good health in pomeranians."

Face it, this Beckett guy knows dogs. Put this one on your reading list, bow-wows, even though so far he's had only one paragraph break in all those twelve pages. Prop it up over your dog bowl! 

Girlsie here.  Thanks Chanel for clearing up a mystery ( Momsie used to wear your suits by the by).  If Momsie was 500+ it would explain a lot, like she forgot our names and our favorite food and stuff.  Tho it might have been that mean Mr. Marshall replacing our foie gras with Purina.  We know he took our favorite picture of Dogs Dancing off the wall. They say it was done by a Mr. Tiepolo and that he was an old master, (not as old as Momsie surely!) 

 

Anyway all that was before Mr. Marshall dognapped us to an undisclosed location.  We hear he may be going to one soon.  Boysie and I are taking bets.  

Care to wager?

How Old Are People in Dog Years?

Hi there dog bloggers,

I was innocently reading the National Inquirer the other day (I only read it for the clothes - which you can understand because my name's Chanel), and they were talking about moi. Quel surprise! Of course they were discussing my age - goats that they are. I just got the Guinness World Record as the oldest dog, 21 years old in people years. According to them, that makes me 120 years old in dog years. Where do they get these numbers? I was just reading preceding blog about Mrs. Astor - she was 105 in people years, making her, umm, tough figuring this now, but approximately 598.5 years old - doggywise, that is. No wonder she had trouble remembering stuff!

Realistically, why are dogs that much older than people? Time is relative, according to Einstein (and believe me, I've tried to read him) so, I mean, we don't smoke, we don't drink (most of us, anyway), and we're not mean to each other (except little moi to the unfortunate black lab up the street). No marital problems, we outsource our children - no headaches there. So I say if I'm 21 in people years, I'm actually about 2 in doggy years. Confused yet?

I sure am. Maybe it's my age.

Au revoir, Chanel 

Can't We All Just Get Along?

Girlsie here - as in Boysie and Girlsie, and we belong to Mrs. Brooke Astor, so don't you forget it. Now we live up in Vermont on a farm, far away from all that fighting over our Mommy's will. It was all Boysie's fault for piddling on the couch when he got excited. Someone told somebody else, and all of a sudden people said our mistress was living in a filthy house. Maybe they'll ask you to testify, Boysie, and you can tell them the truth.

"Woof."

Easy for you to say, but Mr. Tony was always nice to us, and so was his wife, Mrs. Charlene. She gave us treats. Of course one time somebody, who shall be nameless, locked us in the dining room. Tell that to the judge, Boysie.

"Woof, woof." 

You're such a busybody, always sniffing people. Me, I just lounge, though I do miss our Mommy. She was so good. But the butler comes to see us, Mr. Christopher. He's going to testify, at least according to the Daily News. Unlike yourself, I actually read the newspaper, as opposed to doing you-know-what there. Some days they deserve it. 

Mrs. A used to say the best thing about the New York Times was that it came in a blue plastic bag, useful for picking up - ummm----I'm not going to say it, but you can sure smell it. 

"Aaarf!"

York Up a Milk Bone

Pardon me while I york up a Milk Bone. You Beeeatches ain't seen nothing like what I've been through at the offices of Horowitz and Friehling, accountants to Mr. Bernard Madoff. I've been hole up in that freaking office for almost nine years with my master, Mr. Depressed Nerdle I call him, but he's really David Friehling, accountant extraordinaire, good-looking guy, and I'm guessing here, all-around crook.

He and I, we've gotten close, even though when he first rescued me from the Rockland County Shelter I didn't realize my rival would be - ugh - a human, okay not totally human, but one Bernard Madoff, the Bernster, the Bernbag, the Bernboob, all of the above according to old Dave.  

Let me just say, I know things, boy do I ever, and I'm gonna spill my guts at the first opportunity. Vanity Fair, call me. My master is even more depressed than ever. We need to get it all out there - for a price!

you think you got trouble?

Hey Miss Pampers, or is it pampered?  Whine, whine, whine.  You think you've got trouble (OK you are trouble)  Get this, the other day my (so called) mistress took all my chewy, gooey toys and had the housekeeper throw them in the washing machine them so they came out all shiny and clean.  Months of saliva and a patina of yummy dirt and heaven knows what from the poop and pee palace (that's Central Park to you) washed away in an instant and I was left with a mass of rubbery replicas of hamburgers and chickens that smelled like NOTHING!!  And get this, they didn't even squeak anymore.  And then she had the nerve to throw them for me. Does she expect me to chase a rubber chicken? Honestly I balked and lay down in a corner so they would leave me alone when don't you know the dreaded Dr M, the dog therapist showed up to give me a session.  So now I am hiding under the bed and every time he calls my name I growl.  Uh- oh he is crawling under the bed.  This is so humiliating.  More later...  BF

Note to bitch-on-frisee

Why would you be on frisee anyway?  I am on prozac and prime rib puree.  You think you have trouble, my name is Trouble, first last and always.  Believe me, a multimillion dollar trust fund is not all it is cracked up to be.  How many chew toys and bully sticks can you go through a day? Honestly, I wouldn't mind a walk in Central Park  attached to anyone even an indicted sex fiend, a chance to smell the roses and anything else my heart desires, mingle with the mutts maybe get in a game or two.  But they keep me locked up in this climate controlled, satin lined penthouse with wee pads and animal planet on 24/7.  Count your blessings bitch!

pooch post number one

   I am delighted to find this marvelous blog with a pooch post.  Imagine. I was idly googling myself while my masters were out doing whatever they do when they leave the house without me and there was a blog about me MINI ME the BICHON FRISEE belonging to the formerly hyperactive Attorney General of New York.  The kind and obviously empathic writer bemoaned my fate having to walk four times daily tethered to scandal ridden former high official whose very presence evokes intense reactions from revulsion to nasty snickers.

   Fear not, dear Reader.  I do not share his humiliation.  I don't actually think he shares it either being a well developed egomaniac, take it from me, I have lived with him for many years.  When we sense the wave of disapproval and schadenfreude washing towards us on the paths of Central park we stiffen our backs, stick up our nostrils and occasionally one of us emits a small stream of pee to mark our passage.  Guess who