Deep Acres Farm: January 2011

Thursday, January 6, 2011

A Midwinter Dog’s Dream

I know I said I was finished with blogging. So I lied. Truth be told, I forgot I had asked my newest BFF TT, Aly, to write a little ditty for me. You see, Aly lives on the east coast with her boy toy, Cody Brotter, a student at Boston University. We met on the internet. No not on Craigslist. Not in a chat room. Cody's a writer and I found him when he wrote about Aly in one of his fabulous articles. Cody's a great writer. Right up there with Erma Bombeck. As you will see, Aly's no slouch herself.

The Girl With the Golden Mustache

My name is Aly and I just turned 12 human years the day after Jesus’s birthday. I met my adopted brother Cody when I had been alive for 3 human months and he had been alive for 47 dog years. You do the math—I wasn’t allowed to attend your prestigious public schools or your universities or even your dining room tables.

I didn’t want to move to the suburbs. Didn’t like the atmosphere…the je ne sais quoi…the white guilt…but the house is pretty nice. Cold floors to sleep on, lots of leftovers—turns out that “puppy dog” face works for any kind of girl! Ladies, next time you wanna get some extra fat off of your owner’s ribeye steak…just turn on the charm.

But the charm doesn’t always work. Before I knew Cody was my bro—that is to say, before I became socialized in the Freudian sense and fell victim to the societal limitations on familial romances and peeing indoors—I thought he was a potential BF. He was hairy like me and also seemed to be on my intellectual level. We both liked the same food and the same TV shows. Besides, he was the only one who could make me laugh and pee on a hydrant at the same time. Puppies often recall the ancient Tibetan saying, “there are other fish in the sea,” but I’ve never been a big fan of seafood anyway.

Sometimes I wonder what those licks on his cheek meant to him. Did he think I enjoyed tasting the remnants of McChickens and McFries and McOther-Girls? All the supermodels Cody brought in and out of that house like it was a revolving door at John Mayer’s bachelor pad or auditions for Playmate of the Year—well it made me realize what a bunch of slores you standing mammals are. Eventually I could see I would never be more than just that girl with a golden mustache, eating tissues and begging for crumbs by his chair. Plus, he had to leave for college. You know how the long-distance thing works out.

Now he thinks he’s some big-shot because he can Google Image himself all day while conference calling Los Angeles and Tweeting instead of living. He mentioned me in one of his critically-ignored articles—using his family in the old country as petty tools in his questionable quest for notoriety—in the BU newspaper:

“Now I already know lot about women. Partly because I was raised by my mom and my female Tibetan terrier but mostly because I read a lot of Judy Blume books when I was in middle school. That’s right, ladies—I know what you’re up to. And it looks like you could all really use a hug.”

You see how he’s using me so he can use others? Well, rightfully outraged, a fellow Tibetan named Suddie found me on the blogosphere. And she asked me to write. To speak out. Now I’m a pretty amazing bitch; I once placed 2nd in a dog show and I’m probably the worst trained dog since that Prozac-addicted Taco Bell dog (you should have known him offstage like I did…talk about a casual fling gone wrong). So what can I pick without giving away chapters from my upcoming autobiography, I Let the Dogs Out? I have sort of a world-renowned (NBD) sleeping position. It’s guaranteed to induce maximum relaxation and maximum laughter from onlookers. Go ahead and LOL. I can’t hear you when I’m doggy-paddling through the delicious depths of my unconventional unconscious. Paparazzi have even been catching some shots of me—yes, in the nude, and yes, I’ve filed two pending lawsuits—in this very position. I hope those pics don’t make it online.

Dogs have another expression: “dreams come true.” If that were accurate, I wouldn’t be on a blog, I’d be on a couch the size of Djibouti in a world turned into a Cheez-Its farm. I’ve written a sonnet with a Shakespearean rhyme scheme in iambic pentameter. This takes a seriously long time, even in human years. If you don’t like this poem, you’re probably a kitten or a well-read poetry professor with great insight. Good night and woof woof.