Scenes From The Royal Pack
As I posted recently, I was feeling a bit techy about The Dog Whisperer and his sunny California mantra about exercising your dogs. Everything’s perfect in California when you have twenty dogs on leashes and you’re fully in control of your roller blades and you’re making mondo bucks with your billion different projects and you have a beautiful family and AND, to women (or guys) of a certain age or disposition, you just might be KINDA HOT!!
But then I saw this. Dammit! Is there anything he doesn’t think of?
Perhaps I could offer up the excuse that my obese Corgi, who is the trainable one, seems to be able to gain weight by eating the free range dust bunnies that graze under the sofa. When I say that he is trainable, I mean that in the mildest sense of the word. He knows how to sit and he knows how to roll over. If you tell him to heel, he will sit. If you tell him to stay, he will roll over. In other words, he has the concept that, when you look at him and address him in a specific tone of voice, it indicates that he should either sit or roll over.
God help you if you try to stop him and guide him in a new direction. He will just keep sitting and rolling over until you start laughing and then of course, when he has made you laugh, that is the magical sign that he needs a treat.
Even though his treats generally consist of ice cubes and he gets the same amount of food and exercise and the other Corgi, I am thinking of renaming him Hindenburg. If you come over, please don’t light any matches around him. (He also belches and farts like a biker at a chili eating contest so there is another gaseous connection to the dirigible industry.)
But alas! There is the “other” Corgi. The one that is sleek and svelte and, if not for his lack of procreative tackle, he could be in a dog show. Well, except for the fact that the lineage nazi’s would bust him for coming from the shelter. WE DO NOT KNOW HIS PEOPLE. (Sounds like the tragic plot of a Southern Gothic novel involving well-heeled inbreeding and amnesia.)
Anyway, I struggle to figure him out.
He is either fiercely independent or mentally retarded.
I have wondered momentarily if he was deaf only to be disproven an hour later when he could hear a twinkie wrapper rustle four rooms away.
He will not sit. He will not even entertain the idea of momentarily pausing in a hunched sort of position. When the two dogs sit together and Shuggie is doing his two tricks, Kirby will look at him with all the disdain one Corgi can muster. It is evident that he feels Shuggie is nothing but a tool.
He also walks at the very end of his leash as if he doesn’t want to sully his reputation by being seen with mere mortals.
He will also spend considerable time in sub zero temperatures staring off into the distance as Shuggie does his “poopy dance”. He is listening to the cool jazz soundtrack that is on a constant loop in his head. Shuggie? He’s got a circus tune running through his brain, complete with cotton candy and elephant farts.
He’s never ashamed to be a two-trick pony.
As Kirby is calmly looking off into the distance, Shuggie will occasionally strain to see what he is looking at. No doubt, he’s wondering if there is a possibility that Kirby has discovered food.
I’m investigating the possibility that Shuggie is just a mentally retarded bulemic that forgets to purge.
Maybe Caesar should team up with Weight Watchers?
I’m guessing that somewhere, somehow, he already has.