It's All Going to the Dogs

Laverne and Shirley actually brought me the paper Saturday morning.

“Read it! Read it out loud!” they barked, their little tails wagging in anticipation.

“Why the sudden interest in current events?” I asked my dachshunds, thrilled that they actually fetched me the paper. Then I spotted the Wall Street Journal article on animal rights in Switzerland.

Voters in Switzerland would be going to the polls the next day, the article said, to vote on a referendum that would compel every town in the country to provide legal representation for animals.

Switzerland, more commonly known for its cheese and tight-lipped bankers, is also the most pro-animal-rights nation on the planet. For example, prospective dog owners must take a four-hour course before being allowed to purchase a pet. By contrast, new parents in our country don’t get that much instruction before leaving the hospital with their infant.

In addition, “social” Swiss animals – birds, pigs, fish, and yaks, to name a few – cannot be purchased alone. They must be provided a companion. Every a sole needs a soulmate, I guess. And get this: sick fish cannot just be flushed down the toilet. Swiss law dictates they be quickly bashed in the head or placed in a mixture of water and clove oil dissolved in alcohol.

Bella, the kitty cat, piped up: “Send me to Switzerland. I’d love to get away from these stupid dogs, and I could make a nice living taking care of all the sick fish.”

“Here’s something you would like, Bella,” I said to my kitty, “In Switzerland, it is illegal to deprive a pussy of human of human contact for more than 24 hours.”

“Whatever.” Bella jumped on my head and dug her claws in. “That law benefits humans, not cats.”

If the measure passed, the article went on to say, animals in Switzerland would be guaranteed the right to an attorney. And if they could not afford an attorney, one would be provided at the expense of the government.

“The only animal I know that can afford an attorney is Trouble, the Maltese who inherited $12 million when Leona Helmsley died. And I’ll bet that dog has a rich lawyer,” I said.

Laverne and Shirley ignored my snide remarks and howled in joyous support of the referendum.

“What would you two possibly need a lawyer for?” I asked.

The first complaint filed by their attorney, they explained, would be for my failure to provide proper nourishment.

“Your bowls are never empty! How can you say I don’t feed you?”

The key phrase, apparently, is “ proper nourishment.” According to Laverne and Shirley, dachshunds require fried eggs at least every other day to maintain the shine in their coats. Dry kibble is the equivalent of feeding my kids Cocoa Puffs for every meal.

“Okay. I’ll try to do better,” I promised. “Is that all?”

They were just getting started. The shock collars had to go. Air conditioning in the summer would be a new requirement. They needed crushed ice, not cubes, in their water dish on days when the high would be over 80 degrees. But their biggest beef? Recently, our vet recommended that I purchase health insurance for my dogs, citing a dachshund’s propensity for back problems and the age of my dogs. Laverne and Shirley are pissed at my refusal to purchase medical and dental insurance. They’re scared I’ll just put them down and buy a $400 purebred replacement the next day.

I decided to change the subject and went back to the Wall Street Journal. The biggest proponent of the Swiss referendum, according to the article, is a 51-year-old Swiss attorney named Antoine Goetschel, who is the animal rights public defender in Zurich. Last month, he took an amateur angler to court for abusing a 22-pound pike. The fisherman had to fight the fish for ten minutes before reeling it in, and that, according to Goetschel, constituted prolonged fish agony that could be considered cruel.

“I could’ve popped that pike in two minutes,” the 7-pound Bella boasted.

I continued reading. “Goetschel is a vegetarian who has no pets and avoids taking medication because of his opposition to research on lab animals. He became interested in animal rights at the age of 23, when an accident left him unable to speak for 10 days, helping him understand the plight of animals who can't express themselves.”

“I have no use for vegetarians,” Bella sniffed.

“A lawyer who can’t talk is appealing,” I pointed out.

“We need someone like him!” Laverne and Shirley yapped in unison. “A voice insisting on equal rights for all, starting with mandatory health insurance.”

Wait a minute. Lawyers, government, and mandatory health insurance. Where have I heard that before?

A Pain (or two) in the Neck

Recently, a neighbor took the time to walk across the street and ring my doorbell to inform me that he is unable to sit on his front porch in the afternoon and enjoy a glass of wine because my dachshunds bark too much.

Seriously? It’s been cold enough to freeze the balls off the monkey statue next to my pool (pictured above), and you’re sitting on your front porch with a glass of wine? The only other time we’ve talked, you were putting your garbage in my yard so that the truck would get it on their “return trip” down our street. I’ve got news for you, neighbor: I’ve never seen a garbage man go both ways. I wonder if you're really rowing with both oars.

But being the good neighbor that I am, I have already contacted the Invisible Fence people about purchasing bark collars for my dogs. The reason I haven’t done it sooner is that they already wear the Invisible Fence collars to keep them in the yard, and I didn’t want them to be confused about why they were getting zapped in the neck.

It’s too bad Puppy Tweets aren't available yet.

What are Puppy Tweets? Mattel is getting ready to roll out a product that allows dogs to use Twitter. The special collar is pre-loaded with 500 phrases, and every time the dog moves or barks, the owner receives a new Tweet.

Some of the pre-programmed, generic messages an owner could receive via text are

*I bark because I miss you. There I said it. Now hurry home.
*It’s not the catching of the tail. It’s the chase.
*Can we get some sparkling water for the toilet bowl?

Kind of boring, right? Had Puppy Tweets previously existed, here are some of the messages I would have gotten from my dachshunds:

*I bit the UPS guy. Animal control has been called.
*When am I off quarantine for biting the tax assessor?
*Get us a new bed on your way home. We were bored today and ate it.
*You forgot to feed us so we ate all the pansies in the pots.
*It's 27 degrees outside and the stupid neighbor is on his porch.

My dachshunds already have their regular collars (necessary for displaying the rabies tags in case they bite) and their Invisible Fence boundary collars. If I add a bark collar and a Tweet collar, they’re going to look like the Burmese Pai Dong Long Neck People, the ones known for stretching their women’s necks with brass rings.

So the doggies and I have come up with a solution. We’ll forego the bark collars and wait for Puppy Tweets, provided they promise to only bark when it’s REALLY important for them to send me a message. Acceptable TWEETS are as follows:

*Luverne is trying to eat from the cat’s litter box again.
*UPS guy is here. You have a package! If you want, we’ll go ahead and open it for you.
*The cat told me she is going to kill you in your sleep tonight. Get rid of the cat.
*Your kids are throwing a party. They’re giving us beer to buy our silence. You’d better come quick.
*The dumbass across the street is putting his garbage in our yard again.

Come to think of it, those are pretty much the only things they bark about anyway. And let’s be fair -- their brains are the size of an Everlasting Gobstopper, and that’s what they’ve been programmed to do. They, at least, know that garbage trucks don’t go both ways down the same street.

An Open Letter to Those Who Crossed My Path Today . . .

To My Dachshunds: We’re moving to Florida today. Although your brains are the size of walnuts, I have to give you credit for the incredible intelligence you’ve shown in choosing to move with me. Trust me, Benadryl will help you sleep comfortably during the drive to St. Augustine. And for your future entertainment, the new invisible fence is configured so that the UPS guy will have to get by you to reach the front porch.

To L’Donna in the fancy fuschia Cadillac: Your car is lovely, and I’m envious of the vanity plate with your name on it, but I feel compelled to tell you that driving 80 miles per hour on I-75 while scratching your braids with those 3” nails and talking on the cell phone leaves no hands on the steering wheel.

To My Children: I love you. I stayed married to your dad when I knew he was cheating on me because I didn’t want to break up your home. In the years since the divorce, I’ve tried to keep as many things in your life the same as always. But as much as I try, I can’t live in your father’s path. I’m afraid for my health if I don’t get out of his orbit. It breaks my heart that you’ve chosen to live with him, but I understand that you want to avoid change. All you need to know is that the day you call and tell me you want to come live with me, I’ll be in the car on my way to get you.

To the Rednecks in the jacked-up F-350: Today’s race is at the Atlanta Motor Speedway in Hampton, not on I-75.

To the Woman in the Hyundai Santa Fe: Violently yanking your steering wheel while trying to change lanes at 90 miles per hour is what’s causing your SUV to careen onto two wheels. Ease into those lane changes, sweetie, and you won’t flip that damn piece of aluminum.

To the Woman at the Chick-Fil-A- in Tifton: Asking for five orders of bacon at a crowded fast food restaurant is not going to win you any friends. And saying to the sweet teenager waiting on you, “I want five orders of bacon, and don’t interrupt me until I finish giving you my order,” made me want to yank all the hairs off of your head. Here’s the problem: Chick-Fil-A doesn’t have “orders of bacon” on its menu. They cook bacon for their Club Sandwiches. Buy five sandwiches and take the bacon out of them if you must have bacon. You want only bacon? Marry a pig. Chick-Fil-A doesn’t have someone in the back cooking bacon just for some nitwit on the Atkins Diet.

To the Teenager Who Ran His Car off I-10 into a Swamp: Can you please talk to the lady in the Hyundai? She’s about to do what you just did.

To My Ex-Husband: I kind of understand your wanting a younger, tighter, stupider woman. She makes you look smarter and wealthier. I also kind of understand your hiding money in Costa Rica so that you don’t have to pay me the settlement I deserve. But here’s what I don’t understand: you got what you wanted, so why can’t you leave me alone now? Why do you torture and harass me more than two years after the divorce was final? You remind me of the woman in Chick-Fil-A today, someone with irrational and unreasonable ideas of how other people should accommodate you. Here’s the deal, you stupid man: I have bacon. And it’s good bacon. But you can’t have it, not at any price. It’s going to someone who wants the whole club sandwich, someone who will appreciate the value of a combo meal. Someone who doesn’t ask for the bacon in exchange for a little sausage.

To the Dachshunds: I told the UPS guy you can be bought with bacon.