To quote whatever the heck news source published the following tidbit that I accidentally stumbled upon and thought worthy of your attention:

“Black lab Bronson’s owner, Deborah Allen, trundled home from the nearby fields with a poisonous reptile hanging from his face.

Poor Puppy.

Bronson is often bringing objects he finds in the fields back to his owners’ farmhouse at Yarragon, near Melbourne, Australia, but the day he brought home the deadly copperhead snake topped them all for Deborah and her husband Peter.

The snake’s tail was in Bronson’s mouth, its body was wrapped around his jaw and the reptile’s head was dangling down between the dog’s feet.

Deborah and Peter were terrified that the snake might raise its fangs and give Bronson a deadly bite, but it appeared to have come off the worst in the battle between canine and reptile and was in a dazed state.

‘The first thing we did was grab a camera and take a picture, because this had to be believed,’ said Deborah. ‘The look on Bronson’s face left us in no doubt he was feeling very sad about having his mouth clamped shut by the snake’s body.

‘You could see by his expression that he just wanted the picture session to be over with as soon as possible.’”

Yes. He was hoping you’d get past the pictures and get on to the snake removal.

However, when Bronson didn’t realize is that the first thing you do when a snake bites you or a pet is take a photo of it. That’s snake bite 101. Snake bite = photo time.

Better yet, bust out your video camera and take your best shot at “America’s Funniest Home Videos.”

Imagine the hilarious voice-over they’d give this venomous situation! A veritable laugh riot! Hilarious stuff!

So anyway…

The couple were eventually able to remove the snake by lowering a grain bag to the ground and then pulling it up over the reptile, while at the same time pulling its body from Bronson’s mouth.  ’As soon as I said “give” Bronson dropped the snake right into the bag and we sealed up the ends.

They then rushed Bronson to a local vet, where a blood test confirmed he had received a bite from the snake. He was put on a drip and after four days was allowed to return home in the best of health.

Now first off, being no stranger to vet overnight visits, let me tell you a mere ‘four days on a drip’ is going to run about $4000. Seriously. And if they start doing EKGs and whatever the hell else they deem necessary? Well, it’s worse than a mechanic who realizes you have no idea how a car works.

Secondly, the photo thing really does kind of blow my mind. Especially now that I know that the dog had already been bitten. On the other hand, without the photo there probably wouldn’t be much of a news story…so I guess I should bear that in mind the next time Dozer eats a huge Costco package of dried mangos (last night) or a 14 oz. container of chocolate cover-espresso beans or a box of raisins or whatever other toxic substance comes his way next.

A picture tells a thousand words, so (obviously) photos make it an awesome story!

And thus, here one is, repeated in my blog for your reading enjoyment. Maybe not so much because it’s fascinating or news-worthy or life-affirming, but because it makes me feel better about my own idiot dog. Sure he’s been stung – in the mouth – snapping at yellow jackets, but he’s never brought home a poisonous snake.

Yet.

Good boy!

Fuck.

Did I really used to write this thing every day?

I must have had nothing going on.

I mean NOTHING.

I so do not have time for this nonsense now.

And yet here I am.

Yet again.

So what’s this thing about again?
Oh yeah. That’s right. Four calling birds.

That sounds like a bad gift right there: Four noisy-ass birds.

Do you have birds? Or know anyone with birds? They are loud. LOUD. LOUD.

It’s the universe punishing us for (sort of) domesticating birds and clipping their wings and throwing table cloths over their cages at night.

Break it down.

We’re jerks.

So anyway, speaking of ‘calling birds’, I don’t know about four, but I do have a story. You see, once upon a time, I went into my high school Graphic Arts II class and the substitute teacher was my dad’s ex-girlfriend.

And she was a really lovely and charming and delightful person…but she had a truly awful son.

No. Don’t judge. I’m dead serious. Even as youth, my brother and I couldn’t stand the kid (exactly one year in between us in age). He was – and pardon my French – a punk ass bitch.

Nonetheless, it had been a few years and I was excited and happy to reunite with her, and she sensed my weakness and that’s why – through a complex and unfortunate mix of guilt and pity and ‘reuinted and it feels so good’ and pity – she convinced me to go to her son’s prom with him.

Because no other female human would.

And the few chimps they knew were busy.

So along comes the big night –  fabulous and magical (or not. All I remember is that he spent most of it outside smoking as he had been a foreign exchange student in France for most of the year and picked up the vile habit and imported it in the hopes of seeming cool) – and I went over to have dinner at their house.

And they had some kind of really smart black bird (a Macaw?) in a cage, and it was a pistol. I’d never really given birds much thought, and this thing blew my mind. In addition to singing songs and reciting poetry and calling the dog over to tease it, the bird would make the EXACT sound of the telephone ringing, and then do this dead-on impression of the mother (my dad’s ex).

“Hello? Oh, hiiiiiiii!”

And in addition to being strange and spooky and kind of unnerving, It was actually one of the more hilarious things I’ve ever seen in my life.

So you know when you’re at a huge concert and you’ve been drinking beer and holding it as hard as you can because you don’t want to miss a single second and then finally there’s the intermission and physiologically you can take no more and you simply MUST go to the bathroom and then there’s a huge, long line and you endure that for ever and ever and ever…and then FINALLY you get your chance and are able to go?

Check and mate. Dozer can so top that.

Last night

This one time I went and saw the musical Wicked on Broadway (AMAZING!!!) in Manhattan and the line for the women’s room was down the block and there was some kind of employee in there drill sergeanting us through the occasion (“All right girls! Hurry! Hurry! HURRY! Two minutes and counting, girls!!! Move it along! Make it count! One minute and thirty seconds, girls! I’ve got a line here! Move it along!!! Move it!!!!”) in a completely nerve-wracking manner. (I suppose I’m fairly unaccustomed to being screamed at while using the bathroom…)

But I managed to get through it and go somehow, and I felt both relieved and triumphant and definitely faster than the girl in the adjacent stall, and I got back into the theatre right before the intermission ended, and before they locked the doors.

What I’m saying – and please forgive the inherent rudeness of this suggestion – but do you know the insane pleasure of finally going to the bathroom when you REALLY have to go to the bathroom?

Well, Dozer had been on an IV for 24 hours and was insanely pumped full of fluids.

And didn’t pee.

Not once.

In 24 hours.

He's home!!!

And they were a little bit freaked out about this, although mostly convinced that he wasn’t comfortable enough to let ‘er rip…as it were.

And I got him home and took him on a very short walk where he proceeded to go – and I am not exaggerating here – for three solid minutes. It was like that scene in the first Austin Powers movie after they wake him up from being frozen for thirty years…except it lasted five times as long. I was honestly surprised he was able to balance on three legs for such an extended period.

Anyway, this is a long-winded and probably overly descriptive way of saying he’s home and (minus some obsessive licking of the area where they shaved his arm) doing just fine.

In fact, he’s back up on the counters like it never happened.

Idiot.

It’s hard to say which of the seven deadly sins – envy, wrath, sloth, pride, greed, gluttony and lust – is the worst. It may depend on context.

Stains like this on the counter are always a tip off that a theft of some sort has occurred during my absence.

And in this context, the answer is without question gluttony.

Last night I got home from a friend’s and Dozer was acting funny – whining, howling, and running around like a lunatic. In fact, to the degree that a neighbor had called and left a concerned message. I gave him a cookie, but rather than eat it, he whined and ran to the top of the stairs. I tried to go all Lassie with him, “What is it, boy? Timmy’s in the well? Show me!” and followed him down where he proceeded to run around the couch approximately 275 times at warp speed with a Milk Bone in his mouth.

Lassie he is not.

But he was trying to tell me something.

Busted with the package of berries. Frank (in the foreground) has since been decapitated and dismembered.

Just not articulately enough that my feeble human brain could comprehend it.

Another hour later I decoded the message: He’d eaten a 14 ounce package of Trader Joe’s chocolate covered espresso beans.

That’s a lot of chocolate. And even more coffee. The vet said it would be like drinking ten espressos.

Now chocolate, as you probably know, is poison to dogs. But it’s not the chocolate that’s the problem, it’s the caffeine. It’s a stimulant that can cause them to have seizures and heart attacks…and die.

So chocolate + coffee is a Malatov cocktail. So a night spent at the emergency vet and a day at the vet with an IV and regular EKGs and multiple baths to get the explosive diarrhea off him, and he’s still alive and probably ready to come home in a few more hours and start stealing food off the counters all over again.

A couple weeks ago.

Thus, bullet dodged, I’m feeling a little less horrified by the whole thing, which is why in his honor I thought I might share with you a brief list of some of the other things I remember him swiping and eating. This is not by any measure a  conclusive list. Dozer  is 1533 days old…which translates to a whole lot of counter stealing. More than I could ever accurately recount. Nonetheless, here’s what I’ve got:

• Kumquats
• A box of cake mix
• Cantaloupe
• Italian salad
• Macaroni and cheese
• Raw pie crust
• Meatloaf
• Quiche
• Rotten strawberries
• Pepitas
• Steaks off people’s plates
• Fettucine alfredo off people’s plates

When the snow melted last winter, it became clear what Dozer had been up to in the prior weeks.

• Basically anything off unsuspecting people’s plates
• Hummus
• Egg shells
• Guacamole
• Smoked salmon
• Grilled salmon
• Lasagna
• Sushi
• Bacon – raw, cooked, whatever
• Taco shells and the box they came in
• Unbaked turkey stuffing
• Enumerable sticks of butter (his most favorite thing ever)
• Fried chicken
• Compost
• Cheetos
• Lunch meat

Hoping to get a little soda to wash it all down.

• An entire block of horseradish cheese
• Mayonnaise
• A bag of potato chips
• Cheerios
• Wheat Thins
• Dry pasta
• Spaghetti with meat sauce (his very first theft at 10 weeks old)
• Pistachios
• Several packages of liverwurst – wrapper and all
• Cantaloupe
• A martini (he was three months old)
• A tube of toothpaste
• Hot tea with milk
• Chocolate milk
• Beer
• Bananas
• Shoes

Somes you've got to eat a little paper to get to the good stuff.

• Hazelnuts
• Countless loaves of bread
• Fertilizer
• Homemade carmel rolls
• Pizza
• Cat food
• Uncooked rice
• The plastic scoop used to measure out his kibble
• Apples
• Several pumpkin pies (one of his nicknames – Pumpkin Pie)
• Caesar salad
• Blue cheese dressing
• Blue cheese
• The bag his dog food comes in
• A box of raisins (which required a trip to the vet to have his stomach pumped)
• Tomatoes on the vine
• Rice
• Thai takeout
• Four bags of tulip bulbs

Early thievery. Back when reaching the counter was a struggle.

• Chinese takeout
• Any takeout
• Blueberry muffins
• A deck of cards
• Oatmeal cookies
• Popcorn
• Canned tuna
• Short ribs
• A bag of lollipops
• Special K
• Power bars
• Crepe batter
• French fries
• A Snickers bar
• Goldfish crackers
• A tin of breath mints

Baby's first - stolen - pasta! (And don't even try to tell me this isn't the cutest thing you've ever seen in your entire life.)

Like I said, this is just some stuff off the top of my head…

Now don’t go thinking the dog has no self-respect. He is a glutton, but he does draw the line at citrus fruit and jalapeno peppers. But he’s not above putting a couple tooth marks in them just to make sure his palate hasn’t matured.

You never know.

I used to hate pineapple and now I love it.

Things change.

And some things – like gluttony – never do.

It's hard to believe he was this small once.

I had a brief impulse to get all cutesy on you and call this “The Fine Art of ReloCATion” but I hate a pun as much as the next guy. More.

Me on the flight from Seattle to Miami after about three hours of sleep...the first night like that of many.

Apologies for my lengthy absence. In a practical sense, internet connections have been non-existent. In addition, traveling with three people, three cats, and nine pieces of luggage was, to put it simply, painful.

To put it less simply:

I wrote that blog for you Friday, and it was pretty much pure chaos from there on out. Stress was running high, and my friends expressed theirs during a lengthy and protracted bickering match that lasted about three days.

Oh joy.

At any rate, allow me to cover the highlights of pulling off such a feat, should you ever feel so stupid.

On Horseshoe Bay beach. I was kind of proud of this artsy shot.

Step one: Clown car experience.

1.  Grossly overload a rented Toyota Camry.

2.  Realize there is no room in said rental car for the third wheel you’ve included in your nightmare (me).

3.  Overreact and come up with a weak plan to call a cab 15 minutes after you originally planned to be at the airport, thereby guaranteeing extraordinary amounts of stress for all parties.

4.  Decide instead to load third wheel vertically into the front seat, where she will lie in a precarious and painful position – wedged between the drivers seat and passenger side door and astride another person in a manner she has not even come close to attempting since she was 13 years old – for 45 minutes.

Me at Jobson Cove - a spot the locals used to use to raid ships that crashed in the surround reef (so said the homeless guy bathing there.)

5.  Pray to whatever you believe in that lying in this manner doesn’t dislocate a disc or damage your back or send you (me) through a windshield or whatever.

6.  Arrive at airport in one piece. Hallelujah!

Step two: Security meltdown

1.  Take three fancy Persian cats through airport security

2.  Refuse to kowtow to the tried and true.

3.  When asked to remove a cat from its carrier and carry it through the scanner, become hysterical that that cat will scratch, kick, bite, break free, and live its life begging at the Anthony’s Seaport Grill.

Horseshoe Bay - bad weather rolling in

4.  Flirt with imprisonment. Get irritated and use words such as “harassment” and “abuse of power” during TSA employee deep dive on bags.

5.  Lose shoes and start wandering around security area sorrowfully looking for them.

6.  Watch as four men escort you a private room for further bag investigation and a thorough excavation of the cat carriers. Ask if the cats will be receiving a cavity exam, and feel stupid when no one realizes that’s meant as a joke or laughs.

7.  Race to gate, realizing you have no food or water for the six-hour flight to Miami.

8.  Discover cat has peed on self in crate

9.  One hour into flight, notice harrowing smell and realize another member of the feline trio has crapped on itself.

10. Take offending cat to the restroom for a sponge bath.

Why would you buy eggs in a jar? Shipped from Portugal?

Step three: Travel waaaay out of your way for dinner

1.  See above note about bickering

2.  Hang out in your room at the airport hotel with the cats until approximately 11:40pm

3.  After a knock at your door, greet your anxious (and hungry) third party member, and join her for a quick meal at the hotel bar at 11:45pm

4.  Learn that hotel bar is no longer serving food, and throw a conniption fit.

5.  If you are one of the two female members of the group, have a drink. If you are me, have a gin martini straight up with four olives (quite possibly the only solid substance you’re going to get tonight) and pray it goes to your head immediately.

6.  If you are the non-female member of the troupe, go and ask the concierge about places to eat, and completely lose your shit when you are told everything is closed. Storm out of the building – on foot – in search of an iHop. An iHop nobody has claimed exists.

If they hadn't cost $7.00 (USD + Bermudian are interchangeable. They even give you change in American money if you ask) I probably would have bought these out of curiosity. And because I like pickled eggs. Usually.

7.  Talk to taxi drivers and return to your comrades at the bar. Explain to them that you just learned there’s a restaurant a few minutes away called “South Beach.” Convince everyone to join you for a quick meal.

8.  Pile into back seat of taxi and ride…and ride…and ride…and cross bridges…and ride…and go to another continent…and ride…all with the growing realization that you are not going to South Beach, the restaurant, but South Beach (and you are in no way, shape, or form dressed to take on South Beach)

9.  Eat a pretty good meal (all things considered), discover a new way to make vodka lemonades (add mint!!!, and get back at 3am, all the while wondering how this day got so damned long.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

More tomorrow on day two of the journey to get here (and hopefully wifi for my own computer so I can upload some photos to augment your reading pleasure).

p.s.

Justice was served. Blueberry neither peed nor pooped himself. In the end, the bad cat was the good one!