Give A Foot, Make A Smile

I’m conflicted about these so-called “socks”.

I mean, I understand that peoples marinate them all day long in a shoe and then abandon them in the closet basket so that I’ll have something interesting to find and put in my mouth in between meals and carrot cleanings. Obvs. I get that.

But I feel kinda bad for the poor rubes – what’s in it for them?

The answer is “nothing.” And that’s why, after a lot of sole searching, I’ve decided to give back in kind; from now on, if I step in a dead thing, or some street juice, or even a puddle of Lionel’s Own, I’m going to share. By putting my foot in J or Ms. P’s mouth while they’re sleeping.

Surprise! Is there any better way to wake up than via the subtle bouquet of paw on tongue? If there is, I can’t think of one. But what I can think about – what I will think about – are the smiles I’m going to bring to their faces, and the holes I’m going to put in their socks.

Lionel Has Chosen

Many of you have you been writing in, asking what manner of treat keeps my eyes so brown and my beardliness so floofy. Would it surprise you to learn that it’s not, for once, all about the treats?

It’s…wait for it…the food!

(The silhouette’s a nice likeness, no?)

Yep. You read it here first. Lionel’s Choice. The ONLY dog food in the world worthy of being chosen by Lionel. And when I say “in the world” I mean “Lionel’s Choice is currently only available in South Africa”.

Now, I know what some of you must be thinking: “Lionel’s such a sellout! I used to trade rump-sniffings with him in the T-Bell, and now he rides around town in a diamond chariot pulled by pot-bellied zebras, chuckling a derisive chuckle at all the pups who don’t have lucrative sponsorship agreements with South Africa’s #1 ostrich/corn/beef tallow dry food.”

Guys. C’mon. It’s not like that. I just happened to find a product I believe in, which, really, is all anyone can possibly ask for. And if that means I take fewer walks and more diamond chariot rides, so be it. Just know that I’m the same Lionel you fell in love with 10 days ago.

Oh, and don’t forget to try my new Lionel’s Choice de-worming tablet. It’ll de-worm the shit out of you – literally!

Any Sleeps?

Four Legs Good

This really takes the treat.

I mean, I’ve been writing to the production staff at Harpo for MONTHS, telling them all about my terrible childhood, my adoption, how I’ve finally regained trust in people, how I’m following my dream of becoming a famous dancer, how J and Ms. P have taught me that “hope” isn’t just the providence of inspirational stump speeches…

And this jerk gets an all-expenses paid crating to Chicago?

Why? Because a car accident left him with only two legs and his rapid recovery is both heartwarming and inspirational? Pfft. If you want inspiration, you should see me kicking it on two of MY legs. The hind ones. To Journey.

But you know what, Oprah Winfrey? This “Dominic” business has me – for the first time in my short life – questioning my faith in the poetry of Steve Perry. That’s right – I might stop believing.

In you.

Give A Dog A Throne

The New Yorker has a great essay this week discussing Leona Helmsley’s heir, Trouble, and the legal snout-sneezing over trust funds for me and the other adorable Lionels of the world.

At issue, according to naysayers, is whether or not my kind are getting too many of your fancy human rights/dollars. Talk about a snooze; we already eat better than 70% of the world’s population, and the water I drink from Ms. P’s toilet is ambrosia. Case dismissed!

So let’s get down to brass treats, already. There are two reasons why jerks are choked about Trouble Helmsley getting all that lettuce:

1) Fear. Don’t worry! We’re not going to rend your throats like Cerberus set loose at a cocktail party in order to grab our cash, Menendez-style, years early (probably).

2) Jealousy. Hey, I get it. Peoples have to poop in toilets, while Lionels poop on lawns. Guys, this isn’t a big issue – we can ALL poop on lawns! It’s super easy. Just go for a walk, let it happen, and seconds later J will reach down with a biodegradable bag and take care of your business.

In conclusion, dogs are totally prepared to handle vast sums of money. If I didn’t believe that I wouldn’t have licensed my likeness to George and Chuck Parker in 1935.

And really, I mean, it’s not like we can eff things up worse than you guys.

Taste My Pain

Saturday Night College Street Guys, seriously: Throw your effing chicken bones in the trash instead of dropping them on the ground like the borderline-rapist cavemen you are.

Because you KNOW I’m going to see your late-night drunk garbage on the sidewalk and think it’s an abandoned treat, and before J can rattle off a clap to scare the thing from snout, *boom*, hematoma of the mouth! Via jagged-bone-stabbing (under my tongue).

Yeah, your shoddy chicken bones punctured the floor of my mouth. I had to be sedated to get the shards out. With a needle. A long, scary, please-don’t-let-it-be-the-kind-from-the-bad-room needle. When I woke up my mouth tasted like cotton and fear.

Now it hurts to eat food, drink water, and taste carrot. At least until J hooks me up with one of those wads of peanut butter with the crunchy round thing in the centre. They make everything better.

In fact, he just gave me one a few minutes ago. And it’s starting to kick in. Whoa. Man. Peanut butter is so crazy. My paws look HUGE. And they’re so soft. Seriously. Touch my paw. Touch it.

I wonder how long my body can go?

Not Today, RoboPanda!

Hospice Envy

Jon Katz and Izzy can make even the sassiest pup feel like dog shit.

It’s not enough that Slate writer Katz runs this fairytale Narnia farm where animals of every sort frolic about, singing primal songs of brotherhood and carrot-taste, but now he’s got Izzy comforting the dying and wringing tears from my big brown eyes.

I mean, I was going to spend the day eating/vomiting rotting clumps of grass cuttings in the T-Bell, but I guess now I’ll reassess the decisions I’ve made?

Sigh. I didn’t even know “being a hospice puppy” was a thing. Do I spend too much time thinking about being a famous dancer? I’m hungry. When’s Ms. P coming home? Is that an ant over there by the fridge? This carpet is sooooo soft. Maybe a nice nap! Ooh, yes, nap.

(When I’m asleep I can’t feel.)

Harvest Boon

So today’s the first day of fall, which reallllly gets my carrot wet, because fall = dead leaves on the dirty ground.

And dead leaves on the dirty ground = a city-wide cornucopia of treats! Crispy, leafy, dirty treats.

My absolute favourite thing to do with dead leaves is to gather a snoutful from the porch and crumble them on the duvet by way of paw and fang.

My second favourite thing to do with leaves is look upon them and reflect. It was Walt Whitman who wrote, “Grow up taller sweet leaves that I may see! grow up out of my breast!”, which I’ve always taken to be a benediction encouraging one to gorge thine tiny puppy stomach on Gaia’s bounty.

Which brings me to my third favourite leafy activity: Purging! Violently, and often.

And then walking in it.

It’s such a wonderful time of year! And yet, J seems less stoked than I am on the changing seasons… He’d probably be happier if he let himself enjoy the fruits of the soon-to-be slumbering branch, but I suppose leaf isn’t to everyone’s taste (though I can’t see how!).

Also: He’s not very well-read.

Dowd’s Substitute? Delicious.

The best thing about Ms. P being out of town and J hiding under the covers from my sharp sharp talons (so he can sleep) is that I get the computer to myself in the morning.

Today, instead of just marking it, I watched a few episodes of the curiously delightful BBC program Peep Show, then bloggy-paddled over to the New York Times web presence, where I was BLOWN THE EFF AWAY.

Aaron Sorkin wrote Maureen Dowd’s column this weekend! Anyone who has ever kicked it with me on the stone sectional knows I’m a sucker for Sorkin, but man, a conversation between Barack Obama and President Jed Bartlet? That’s some fictionalization even the casual West Wing fan can appreciate. A small sample:

OBAMA: I didn’t expect you to answer the door yourself.

BARTLET: I didn’t expect you to be getting beat by John McCain and a Lancôme rep who thinks “The Flintstones” was based on a true story, so let’s call it even.

So good. And there are many, many more tasty treats in the full piece. Check it!

It Certainly Does Lick

So I’m kicking it with J on the stone sectional, watching Wolves annihilate Preston (yes Iwelumo!), when for no reason whatsoever he grabs the plastic rectangle wand and changes the channel to YTV.

Not a huge deal. I’m down with the new Transformers cartoon, but we only caught like 14 seconds of it before we were shunted into the commercial break. And that’s when I saw this shazz:

Are you effing me? A plastic pseudo-pup that spits stagnant tap water on your face? Merry Christmas, wealthy children! Is that how industrial designers of the toy-making world see us? What a slap in the snout. I’m still seething.

J had a different reaction, though. He started laughing, which I don’t understand at all; what’s so funny about 10-year-olds talking about how wet these automatons make them? Wake up, kids! If you want to get wet, go for the real deal: Dog. It’s what’s for playtime. You don’t even have to fill us up first!

What baloney.

Wait…baloney? Does somebody have baloney? Can I have some baloney? Baloney treats?

Treats?

Dramatic Puppy

Ms. P is leaving soon. And not just to go to Loving In The Name Of, she’s like, packing a suitcase and looking for her passport. Do you think she’s going somewhere far far away to try to find a cuter puppy? I hope not. I mean, I’m not insecure about my beardy perfectiveness, I just don’t like the idea of it.

I also don’t like how the plastic buttons on Ms. P’s duvet cover made me blow stomach all over the carpet this afternoon. Such a foamy mess! Oh, and they taste just awful. I thought they were maybe on the Tootsie Pop tip (possessed of a delicious mystery centre), but it turns out that if you spend the time to shred them down to shards, they’re just regular clear plastic buttons. Total burn!

Sigh. The way this day’s gone, I wouldn’t be surprised if Ms. P returns from her trip with a pocket pup in one hand and a bag of deviously tempting buttons in the other.

Found In Park: Balls

How Will Anyone Know It’s Ours?

When I wake up in the morning, I try to just do my own thing. Lap a little water. Work on the Blue Bone of Infinite Vexation. Maybe step on Ms. P’s face a bit.

Activities I enjoy, all. But you know what I’m not so down with? Having to re-mark the computer every day. I mean, shoot, every time I hit that thing with a hot golden laser of Lionel’s Own, Ms. P rushes over with a wet sponge and erases all evidence that the thing belongs to us.

I’m protecting our assets, Ms. P! What, you think you’re the only one keeping our shit safe? I don’t see you barking at that Pomerasshole from upstairs when he prances past the door. Who growls at the birds? And when was the last time you bit a guest on entry?

When you actually do contribute, by “locking the door” or whatever, do I rush over there with a sponge and turn that deadbolt to the left? No, I don’t. Mostly because my sharp sharp dagger claws are useless against your slippery human metals, but also because I recognize you’re making an effort.

Would it kill you to do the same? I’m only one puppy, doing his best…and sometimes it feels like you don’t care.

Well I’m tired of it. Despite what you may think, I’m not made of pee.

Straight Up No Gimmicks

Holy shit. ENOUGH with the flipping-me-on-my-back-while-saying-roll-over business. Does J do this to anyone else twice a day, for like 10 minutes at a time, every effing day?

Guess what, jerk? I’m not doing it. I’ll Sit, sure. I was going to sit anyway. And I have no problems with Lie Down. But I don’t care how many of these delicious bastards you cup to my snout, I will never – ever – be your trick monkey.

No roll-overs. No shake-a-paws. No playing dead. I’m not some pathetic, starved-for-attention GS. I’m Lionel, punk. King of the apartment. Recognize!

(Oh, and if I ever deign to “fetch” something you’ve thrown* in the park, get ready to glimpse 14 pounds of coiled muscle darting past you like a sophisticated joke.)

…

Any treats?

___
*15 feet, tops.

Fuck You, West Paw Design

Oh really? You think your Blue Bone of Infinite Vexation will outlast my Puppy Teeth of Incomparable Tenacity? We’ll see, jerks.