A Rose By Any Other Name

My dear readers,

No, no, don’t clutch your hearts in despair; this is not a ‘Dear John / Jane’ letter. I’m not writing to inform you that after careful consideration and considerable introspection, I’m breaking up with you because blogging requires too much time and energy – two precious commodities that I would do best to conserve for my family.

I’m not even writing to let you know that my inbox is empty, and really, the only reason I awake each morning is to check my e-mail.

Some of you have complained that this page doesn’t update as frequently as your preferred news channel. Believe me it would, if not for that pesky thing called life that gets in the way each morning to distract me with daily duties and task lists.

What duties can a dog have, some of you wonder. Well, besides defending my turf against the occasional fly, I am also my mom’s official foot warmer, vacuum cleaner, mind reader, walk motivator, chief cuddler, under-the-bed monster chaser and kid distracter. And if that’s not enough, I do my part in keeping the environment clean by consuming any kind of paper or plastic debris strewn on the roadside, in addition to the rare dead bird or discarded aluminum foil.

You see, I’m at my creative best when I’m voiding the previous day’s excess on a grassy patch, but unfortunately, there’s usually no keyboard within typing distance.

By now you must be wondering if this post has a point. I’m wondering the same thing. See what I meant about distractions?

Ah, yes, this post was to set the record straight on my gender. It appears that there’s some confusion on whether I’m male or female. Of course, I’m highly insulted that you can’t tell by my face, but then I realize you’re only human. Certainly, my own humans had no idea that I would enjoy five minutes of fame when they christened me.

Mom: “What should we call him?”
Dad: “It’s up to you. Is dinner ready?”
Mom: “Let’s call him ‘Brownie.’”
Dad: “He also has patches of black, white and grey on him.”
Mom: “OK, ‘Patches,’ then.”
Dad pursed his lips.
Mom: “I don’t want to call him ‘Jimmy’ or ‘Tommy’ or some generic dog name. And we can’t call him ‘Peanut’ because Peanut next door will be confused.”
Dad: “How about Jeeves?”
Mom: “He’s not a butler!”
Dad: “Frederick Algernon Trotteville?”
Mom: “Fat chance! Since he’s a terrier mix, I say let’s call him ‘Terri’ for short.”
Dad (rapidly losing patience): “Fine. Can we have dinner now?”

As you can tell, important decisions in this household are reached in less time than it takes to pick one's nose, but other matters, such as switching toilet paper brands, are deliberately planned and meticulously executed.

Well, it's official now. I was born male, and exhibit definite masculine tendencies, such as a short attention span and a preoccupation with my privates, but I somehow possess an amazing insight into the female psyche.

I say I'm naturally gifted, but mom thinks it's because I'm fixed - a procedure she would like to recommend to about three-quarters of the male populace.

Anybody dare to care to disagree with her?

-- Casanova Canine