My dog is an idiot.


I suppose all dogs are idiots, in their own slobbery way -- and to be fair, my dog's generally one of the least lamebrained canines I know. But being the Queen of the Douchebags doesn't make you a genius; it makes you a douchebag with a tiara, and a pretty good parking spot. My dog is that douchebag.


Lately, she's taken to 'hiding' bones. This is patently ridiculous for two reasons: first, what's 'hidden' to a mushbrained mutt like her is merely 'behind the couch' to the six-foot-tall bipeds living in the house. Similarly, 'almost inaccessible behind the radiator' to her is only 'pain in the ass to retrieve', for those of us who've managed to sprout opposable thumbs.


And we always end up retrieving those damned things, because while the dog is quite adept (for a mutt) at hiding, she's not so good at the finding that you'd think would naturally follow.And if you've ever had a bone hidden hehind your radiator, then you'll know -- as the tantalizing delicate aromas of dog drool and dead animal carcass waft through your living room -- that it's best not to leave it there. And so, our dance with the douchebag dog goes on.


The radiator bones aren't the worst, though. Sure, you might suffer second-degree burns on your arms while fishing the things out, but what's a little blistered skin between friends? I much prefer that to the bones she drags outside through the doggie door.


Most of the time, we don't even realize she's taken one of her toys for an 'excursion' outside. The difference between a 'shitpile of bones' strewn through the house and 'almost as many' is not easily discernable to the naked eye. We only find out that she's keeping a cache out back when, weeks of rain and muck and filth later, she drags the thing back inside the house.


Naturally, like any triumphant archaeologist, she has to parade her find around the house. Never mind the mud and leaves and bugs she might trail across the floor -- a nasty fetid bone find in the back yard is Big News™! And we humans should be just as excited about it.


We are, of course. Just in not quite the same way. And the bitter irony of these weathered bones is -- the dog's not really that excited herself. Once she gets over the initial glee -- 'I found a bone! I FOUND A BONE!!' -- she realizes the bones don't taste nearly as good as the dozen other bones she hasn't trotted into the elements, and loses interest.


Soon after, the filthy bone disappears again. Three weeks later, we see it, in even worse shape now, in the dog's mouth as she takes a victory lap with it through the kitchen. Then it's dropped and forgotten again. Then hidden, caked with new filth, and dragged across the carpet for a while. The best we can hope for is to clean the thing up, hide it behind a radiator somewhere, and hope she can't get to the stupid thing. Somehow, though, she always seems to find the bones she doesn't hide herself. I think she's toying with us.


The other reason 'hiding' bones is cockeyed, even for a canine, is that we have never, in all our time together, taken a bone away from the dog. In fact, more often than not, we're the ones giving her the bone in the first place.


(Even when we're not -- like if someone buys the pooch a present -- she thinks it came from us. I mean, we explain it to her, very patiently, before we give her the new treat.


'This came from my parents! My pa-rents. Paaaaarents.'


I don't think she gets it, though. We even used to show her the receipts, to drive the message home. She eats those. It's like an appetizer to her. So we gave up, and take all the credit now. Much easier.)


So who is she 'hiding' bones from, then? Us? The neighbors? An imaginary pack of pilfering pooches she's dreamed up? I have no idea. All I know is, if I step in another pile of sloppy bone dirt, or have to dive under another searing-hot radiator for a bone again, I may hide one of the damned dog's bones myself for a while. One of the bones attached to her, that is.Wonder how long it'd take her to find that?

Owning a dog is like having a little fuzzy alien in your house. You can't understand them, they can't understand you, and there's a lot of frustrated shoulder shrugging and ass sniffing going on while you sort things out.


Or maybe I've just been hanging around with the wrong sort of aliens. Your amount of alien ass sniffing may vary. Moving right along.


Our dog doesn't bark, under normal circumstances. She only lets out a 'rowrf!' when she wants something. That's where the alien part comes in. She can let us know when she wants something; she just can't tell us what the hell it is that she wants.


Usually, she wants to go outside. A couple of years ago, I might have said, 'Usually, she wants to go to go pee'. That's what we taught her -- when you need to pee, bark at us. We'll take you out for a nice long piddle. No problem.


That's what we thought we taught her, anyway. It turns out she took the lesson as:


'When you feel like a nice stroll, no matter what time of day or whether we're eating or watching a movie or making out on the dining room table, then by all means, bark. Bark to your heart's content, and we'll stop whatever we're doing to attend to your every furry whim.'


That's how it was, for a few years. She barks. I or my wife take her outside. Maybe she pees, and maybe she flops on the grass for a nice summery nap. The only way we could be bigger suckers would be if we rolled her over so we could rub her tummy and feed her Snausages while fanning her with palm leaf fans. And we're the ones with the opposable thumbs. Sheesh.


Of course, the dog wasn't satisfied with this arrangement. Eventually, she decided it would be a good idea to bark for any old thing she might want. And why not? We catered to one whim -- though frankly, mostly to ensure the rugs would remain largely urine-free. Perhaps we'd kowtow to all of the mutt's various demands, if only she bade us to. It was worth a shot, apparently.


So now she barks six or eight times a day. Not the way most dogs bark, like they're screaming at the cat or mailman or mirror or whatever their target might be. No, our dog walks right up, looks you earnestly in the eye, gives a hint of a wag, and says:


'Rurf.'


Then she looks at you, expectantly, as though you might say:


'Oh, I see, girl -- that's the 'change the water in my dish and bring me back a biscuit' bark. I'll get on it right away.'


When this sort of reasonable response fails to materialize, the mutt elaborates:


'Rrrrrrawr. Grrurf! Mwrawr.'


Sadly, only a being with dewclaws, twelve teats, and three layers of back fur can understand such a request. And seeing as how my wife has none of those things -- and I only have two -- the pooch is out of luck.


Still, you've got to give her credit for trying. And she's just so damned sincere, like she really believes she can make us understand, that occasionally, we actually try. The least we can do in that situation is throw her a bone.


Which is never what she wants. So we throw her a chew toy. And a blanket. And a rubber ball. And a little rubber toy shaped like a steak that moos creepily when she chomps it.


None of these is ever what she wants, either. Possibly, she's angling for a better brand of kibble. Or peanut butter and horsemeat milkshakes. Maybe some kid named Timmy is trapped in a well somewhere. Whatever.


So now, when the mutt mewls, we do what we always used to do -- we take her outside. The difference now is -- if she doesn't shut up, we simply don't bring her back in. Now there's a message easy to get in any language.

I've found a new way to combat road rage. Not cure it, mind you. The only true cure for road rage would involve the passing of several unpopular new laws, the repossessing of millions upon millions of other peoples' cars, and prohibitively expensive crosswalk vouchers for pedestrians. Also, murders. Lots and lots of murders.


In the meantime, we have to live in our imperfect world of jaywalking jackasses and nearsighted grandmas clogging up the express lanes. My new method of coping is very simple --from now on, when I feel the urge to scream and rant and shake my little fisticles at some asshole in my way, I'll do it in the same voice I use to praise my dog.


So far, I've gotten some very strange looks. But I'm pretty sure my blood pressure is down, so it seems to be working.


For instance, last night I was on my way home and stopped at a red light. Just as the opposing light turned yellow, a plain-looking young lady chittering on a cell phone stepped off the curb to cross in front of my car. Sloooooooowly. When the light turned green, she was still walking in front of my grill, leaving me and the four cars behind mine to wait her out. Did she get the clue and hustle across? No. If anything, she toddled just a little bit slower, yakking away and oblivious to the roadblock she had become.


This sort of thing irks me to no end. My feeling is, if you're going to break the rules that society lays out, then at least get the hell out of other peoples' way when you do it. I've got nothing against victimless crimes. You can jaywalk if you want. You can speed, you can make illegal U-turns, you can snort toadstools and drop your pants in the park and make 'woo-woo-woo!!' noises. Knock yourself out. But when it starts affecting other people -- like, for instance, me -- then we have a problem. That's when I vote to stuff you in a tutu, throw you in a cell with 'Mervin the Maimer', and see how this whole Darwinism thing works.


So normally, I would've unleashed an angry, obscenity-laced tirade at the woman shuffling along in front of my car. But as I opened my mouth to vitriolize, I remembered my new policy, and instead waggled a finger at her and said:


'Oooh, who's an ignorant widdle bitch, then? It's you! Yes, you is. You was beaten with the ugwy stick, too, wasn't you? Oooh, yes you was! Who's an ugwy widdle ignowamus?'


She just kept inching through the crosswalk -- but as long as I was talking at her like she was a four-legged drooling fuzz-faced moron, it didn't seem so bad. And as long as nothing I do is going to help the situation, why not sneak in a little ridicule of my fellow man or woman?


I had another chance to practice on the way to work this morning. Some jackhole in the left lane decided that he really needed to swerve in front of me over to the exit on the right. Like, RIGHT NOW! With no warning or turn signal to be seen. But did I honk? Did I flip him the bird, or call into question the legitimacy of his birth, or his mother's honor, or the relative size of his male ancestors' genitalia, as I normally would?


No. I simply reached out a hand in his direction, to pretend I was scritching him behind his reckless fuzzy little ears, and I said:


'There's my little dumbass, careening through traffic, yes you are. You're going to die someday soon in fiery widdle crash, aren't you? Oh my, yes. And the people will come and waugh at your charred wemains, won't they? Yes, they will! Goodness!'


I'm liking this idea more and more. I'm calm, I'm peaceful, and I'm at least twenty percent less likely to smash in some idiot's windshield with a softball bat. And maybe just a little closer to the right frame of mind to finally teach my dog how to drive. Even if she can't reach the pedals or read the road signs, she'll be Mutt-io Andretti compared to most of these assbags.

Because I was taught that a follow-up letter is always appreciated after an interview...

Dear 'Sprinkles',


Thank you very much for visiting with us on Saturday afternoon. I know I speak for my wife when I say that we truly appreciate you taking time away from your busy schedule of cage-pacing and nervous drooling to learn about our organization. The feedback from our end was uniformly positive, and we look forward to the opportunity to move forward with you in the hiring process.


As we mentioned on Saturday, we currently have a position available on our team for an Associate Domestic Canine. We feel that you obviously have the requisite experience and qualifications -- i.e., four legs, shaggy hair, kibble breath -- to find success in this position. As your resume indicates, you have been a canine for nearly two years now, which more than adequately meets the minimum requirements for the current opening.


The Associate Domestic Canine hire does represent a relatively junior position on our staff, but we offer ample opportunities for career advancement. By reaching certain employee milestones -- pooping outside the office is a huge goal, for instance -- you may soon be promoted through the ranks to Domestic Canine, Senior Domestic Canine, and Lead Domestic Canine. With years of hard work, paper-training, and slipper-fetching under your collar, you might even rise to the level of CEO -- Canine Executive Officer.


(It's a mostly honorary title, but it does come with a full sixteen-hour daily naptime, and a squeaky chew toy every afternoon. Something to shoot for.)


In terms of compensation, we feel our employment package is very competitive for our industry. We offer two bowls of dry kibble per day base salary, with generous biscuit and rawhide performance bonus plans. We are prepared, right now, to offer you a signing bonus of one hundred delicious Snausages, with payment to be spread throughout the first three months of employment. Additional incentive-based plans involving peanut butter, jerky strips, and the bones of large tasty animals are also open for negotiation.


Our benefits package is world-class for an organization of our size, with fresh drinking water, daily walks, flea collars, tug-of-war sessions, and professional tummy rubs fully covered and offered at no out-of-pocket cost whatsoever to qualifying employees. Our healthcare plan covers twice-yearly checkup visits to a veterinarian, as well as heartworm pills as needed. For these services, there is the small and affordable copayment of having a strange person's fingers inserted briefly into several of your orifices, and of being forced to eat heartworm pills, respectively. For the latter, cheese will be provided at no additional cost.


We appreciate that in today's competitive market, you may have other offers of employment. In particular, we noticed the Johnson family waiting to speak with you as we left on Saturday. Far be it from us to malign our competitors, but in our honest opinion, the Johnson firm doesn't seem to be the best fit for your talent and experience. We hear the Johnsons don't even have a yard. And the kid, Danny -- he's an ear-biter. You can just see it in his eyes.


We hope that you'll seriously consider our offer, and join us for an exciting and productive relationship with our organization. As I mentioned, my wife and I are very excited at the prospect of bringing you on board, and I know our current canine employee -- Sir Digs-A-Lot, Executive Vice Canine and Director of North American Bone-Hiding Operations -- is anxious to meet you, as well. 'Diggsy' will be happy to show you the ropes around the office -- which strangers to bark at, where to find the best sunbeams for naps, the key to the employee newspaper room, that sort of thing.


As a final formality, we would like to request a list of references that we may call for more information. The kennel master at your current position has already given us a fairly glowing review ('glossy coat... don't bite much'), but another reference or two would be greatly appreciated. Perhaps there's another employee who cleans your cage? Or perhaps a coworker -- the terrier in kennel #6 would be fine, assuming you've worked together on projects in the past. We can contact him either by email or phone; just let us know which would be best.


Please feel free to bark back with any questions or concerns you may have. Nothing would please us more than to reach an employment agreement with you, pay to have your testicles surgically removed, and bring you into our organization. We welcome the opportunity to speak with you further, and look forward to our next face-to-muzzle meeting. Please consider the enclosed filthy tennis ball as a small token of our continuing interest. Thank you so much for your time.


Sincerely,
Charlie

Sr. Director of Human Canine Resources
Charlie Industries, Inc.



*Charlie Industries is an Equal Opportunity Canine Employer (EOCE)