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The inner workings of the mind of Malcolm, distinguished canine.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Log 011:
I apologize for my lack of communication. I have been underground for well over one year, conducting my work for the CLARM (Chihuahua Liberation and Respect Movement) as I worked tirelessly to be a voice for my brethren and sisters who cannot speak for themselves. My work with CLARM has taken me to the far corners of this world, and I have held tiny puppies in my cold-fusion arms and assisted the elderly into the next dimension with dignity and a lack of sequined pet collars. I must say, this work has been rewarding and it pained me to return home to her and the new canine living alongside her.
Yes, while I was gone I stationed a clone in my absence so as to not arouse suspicion. The clone managed to effectively deceive my human counterpart, and I made quick dispatch of him upon my return. Under cover of night and a modified chloroform gas, I was able to return to my basket with nary a bark of suspicion from Black.
Black is the name I have bestowed upon the new dog that now lives with Lisa. I am aware that Lisa calls this one by the insipid name of "Katie", but it is quite apparent that this canine operative is a bit more worldly than the last oaf we lived with, Callie.
Within hours, Black confronted me regarding my secret. I confessed that I had been away, and the dog she had come to know for months was but a poor excuse for yours truly. We spoke the evening away in hushed, growling tones as the humans slept upstairs in the new two-story home Lisa purchased since my departure. (It presented a challenge to locate her again, but since the tracker has yet to detach itself from her epiglottis it was a simple matter of logistics to track down the location.) Apparently, Black has done extensive work on the streets of the West side of Phoenix, dealing with the crime-infested underworld as an undercover agent. She is an established bodyguard with a keen eye and sharp listening skills. I am impressed with how quickly she was able to assimilate herself into Lisa's world, and the wealth of information she has gathered since. She knows the names, urine markers and fecal tracing patterns of every canine living within a half-mile radius.
As is evident by this description I give of her, I plan to make the best use of her highly-developed skills and extensive practical knowledge as I work towards my ongoing goals. She will make a worthy foot soldier in the cause. Her larger size and intimidating stance coupled with her ferocious and dead-serious gaze will assist me greatly, as I am somewhat limited by my age and low weight.
I will make every attempt to update this journal as we progress in our professional relationship. This promises to be a highly-beneficial partnership, both for myself and for the movement.
I advise you to leave this website immediately if you have no knowledge of the movement itself. A great dog once said, "We are only limited by what our minds cannot comprehend." I believe that dog was myself in my university days. Please be mindful of this warning, and act accordingly.
At this time, I bid you farewell, my friends. I shall return with further developments.
--Malcolm
I apologize for my lack of communication. I have been underground for well over one year, conducting my work for the CLARM (Chihuahua Liberation and Respect Movement) as I worked tirelessly to be a voice for my brethren and sisters who cannot speak for themselves. My work with CLARM has taken me to the far corners of this world, and I have held tiny puppies in my cold-fusion arms and assisted the elderly into the next dimension with dignity and a lack of sequined pet collars. I must say, this work has been rewarding and it pained me to return home to her and the new canine living alongside her.
Yes, while I was gone I stationed a clone in my absence so as to not arouse suspicion. The clone managed to effectively deceive my human counterpart, and I made quick dispatch of him upon my return. Under cover of night and a modified chloroform gas, I was able to return to my basket with nary a bark of suspicion from Black.
Black is the name I have bestowed upon the new dog that now lives with Lisa. I am aware that Lisa calls this one by the insipid name of "Katie", but it is quite apparent that this canine operative is a bit more worldly than the last oaf we lived with, Callie.
Within hours, Black confronted me regarding my secret. I confessed that I had been away, and the dog she had come to know for months was but a poor excuse for yours truly. We spoke the evening away in hushed, growling tones as the humans slept upstairs in the new two-story home Lisa purchased since my departure. (It presented a challenge to locate her again, but since the tracker has yet to detach itself from her epiglottis it was a simple matter of logistics to track down the location.) Apparently, Black has done extensive work on the streets of the West side of Phoenix, dealing with the crime-infested underworld as an undercover agent. She is an established bodyguard with a keen eye and sharp listening skills. I am impressed with how quickly she was able to assimilate herself into Lisa's world, and the wealth of information she has gathered since. She knows the names, urine markers and fecal tracing patterns of every canine living within a half-mile radius.
As is evident by this description I give of her, I plan to make the best use of her highly-developed skills and extensive practical knowledge as I work towards my ongoing goals. She will make a worthy foot soldier in the cause. Her larger size and intimidating stance coupled with her ferocious and dead-serious gaze will assist me greatly, as I am somewhat limited by my age and low weight.
I will make every attempt to update this journal as we progress in our professional relationship. This promises to be a highly-beneficial partnership, both for myself and for the movement.
I advise you to leave this website immediately if you have no knowledge of the movement itself. A great dog once said, "We are only limited by what our minds cannot comprehend." I believe that dog was myself in my university days. Please be mindful of this warning, and act accordingly.
At this time, I bid you farewell, my friends. I shall return with further developments.
--Malcolm
Sunday, March 07, 2004
Log 010:
At 0400 hours on Saturday, under the auspices of "sleeping on the bed all night with my owner," I planted the behavior modification device on her as she slept. As planned, it fit neatly into the crevice behind her left ear. Only a small amount of anesthesia was needed, as I made the initial incisions between nerve clusters.
How gullible they can be, yes? I do not mean to use my powers for evil. Rather, what I need is select items that I cannot procure by mail order or hypnotized flocks of pigeons.
On Tuesday morning, if all goes well, a woman matching Lisa's description will gain clearance at Luke Air Force Base and secure the plutonium. You may see something on the news. They will blame it on the Russians, as if this were a 1980s film plot. I only write it here because I know that no one would ever suspect the small white chihuahua with the underground bunker and nearly-completed Cold Fusion Arms. Yes, ARMS. While I am aware of the double connotation of that word, the truth is thus: I have concluded that hands are not the complete solution. To truly take full advantage of my intellectual gifts, I must be fully mobile, and that requires lifting power.
It won't be long now.
I bid you well, my friends. I will return to this journal a changed dog.
--Malcolm
At 0400 hours on Saturday, under the auspices of "sleeping on the bed all night with my owner," I planted the behavior modification device on her as she slept. As planned, it fit neatly into the crevice behind her left ear. Only a small amount of anesthesia was needed, as I made the initial incisions between nerve clusters.
How gullible they can be, yes? I do not mean to use my powers for evil. Rather, what I need is select items that I cannot procure by mail order or hypnotized flocks of pigeons.
On Tuesday morning, if all goes well, a woman matching Lisa's description will gain clearance at Luke Air Force Base and secure the plutonium. You may see something on the news. They will blame it on the Russians, as if this were a 1980s film plot. I only write it here because I know that no one would ever suspect the small white chihuahua with the underground bunker and nearly-completed Cold Fusion Arms. Yes, ARMS. While I am aware of the double connotation of that word, the truth is thus: I have concluded that hands are not the complete solution. To truly take full advantage of my intellectual gifts, I must be fully mobile, and that requires lifting power.
It won't be long now.
I bid you well, my friends. I will return to this journal a changed dog.
--Malcolm
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
Log 009:
It occurred to me that I have been neglecting this journal, and therefore I have come here to document some of the recent goings-on in my intellectual journey. Time is of the essence, however. As I type this, a vitamin-fortified raisin loaf is rising in the oven, and I need to be sure not to allow the loaf to overstay its time in the 350 degree enclosure.
I have taken up cooking, it is true. Since scientific pursuits and the ramifications of bioengineering on agriculture are my bread and butter, if you will, it might come as a surprise to my readers that I have been dabbling in the domestic realm. Like any alpha Renaissance male, I concluded that one need not limit oneself to what are historically considered gender-specific pursuits. It is of little relevance, of course, that my teeth and gums are not what they once were in my youth and I have necessity of late for softer, more nutritious fare.
Recently, I happened upon a cookbook on one of the lower bookshelves in the house. After cajoling Callie into knocking her wet muzzle into the books to throw the tome to the floor, I flipped through and found several tempting recipes. I waited until the humans had left the house for the day, and logged onto www.netgrocer.com. Once there, I selected only the finest ingredients and arranged for their hasty delivery using the Bank One card I acquired under an assumed name and social security number during a desperate period in my life last November (when the Swiss Bank account was inexplicably emptied following a terse exchange with Helmut, my financier, when the electromagnetic power lines I had been developing failed miserably in beta testing).
Within days, boxes of organic flour, dried fruits, imported pure cane sugar and molasses and other refinements were delivered to the door. After safely securing Callie behind the laser alarm system I installed behind the shed, I used the ManoRobotic mechanism to open the front door, bring the packages inside, and open the cardboard boxes containing my scrumptious treats.
Later that same day, I again used the MR mechanism to reach the oven control panel, and whipped up the first of eight casseroles. I was pleasantly surprised by my own culinary abilities, once dormant but now set free like so many luftballoons.
There have been times since I have begun my culinary exploits when I feared it would all come crashing down on me. At one point, I was just beginning to heat up my propane torch to lightly toast the top layer of a light-as-air creme brulee I was working on, when I heard the telltale sound of a key in the front door lock. I frantically pulled everything into my basket, and sat down on top of it as Tom nonchalantly entered the house and began talking to my blubbering comrade, Callie. He never made mention of the faint stink of propane, if he did in fact catch a whiff of the remaining vapors.
Another escapade followed when, the next day, I happened to mistake baking powder for baking soda during an attempt at oatmeal cookies. I won't trouble you with the melancholy details of that particular failure.
Overall, my hard-earned robotic hands have been put to good use as I prepare nutritious food to replace the foul "dog food" that Lisa and Tom place down for me each night. Lisa often fusses and tries to cajole me into eating that sub-par processed travesty, and I admit I long to speak to her and tell her that I am not starving, I am simply eating on my own. But to paraphrase the great prince of Denmark-- to speak, or not to speak... that is, the question. For, 'tis nobler for a dog to hold its tongue in the presence of the simple-minded.
It occurred to me that I have been neglecting this journal, and therefore I have come here to document some of the recent goings-on in my intellectual journey. Time is of the essence, however. As I type this, a vitamin-fortified raisin loaf is rising in the oven, and I need to be sure not to allow the loaf to overstay its time in the 350 degree enclosure.
I have taken up cooking, it is true. Since scientific pursuits and the ramifications of bioengineering on agriculture are my bread and butter, if you will, it might come as a surprise to my readers that I have been dabbling in the domestic realm. Like any alpha Renaissance male, I concluded that one need not limit oneself to what are historically considered gender-specific pursuits. It is of little relevance, of course, that my teeth and gums are not what they once were in my youth and I have necessity of late for softer, more nutritious fare.
Recently, I happened upon a cookbook on one of the lower bookshelves in the house. After cajoling Callie into knocking her wet muzzle into the books to throw the tome to the floor, I flipped through and found several tempting recipes. I waited until the humans had left the house for the day, and logged onto www.netgrocer.com. Once there, I selected only the finest ingredients and arranged for their hasty delivery using the Bank One card I acquired under an assumed name and social security number during a desperate period in my life last November (when the Swiss Bank account was inexplicably emptied following a terse exchange with Helmut, my financier, when the electromagnetic power lines I had been developing failed miserably in beta testing).
Within days, boxes of organic flour, dried fruits, imported pure cane sugar and molasses and other refinements were delivered to the door. After safely securing Callie behind the laser alarm system I installed behind the shed, I used the ManoRobotic mechanism to open the front door, bring the packages inside, and open the cardboard boxes containing my scrumptious treats.
Later that same day, I again used the MR mechanism to reach the oven control panel, and whipped up the first of eight casseroles. I was pleasantly surprised by my own culinary abilities, once dormant but now set free like so many luftballoons.
There have been times since I have begun my culinary exploits when I feared it would all come crashing down on me. At one point, I was just beginning to heat up my propane torch to lightly toast the top layer of a light-as-air creme brulee I was working on, when I heard the telltale sound of a key in the front door lock. I frantically pulled everything into my basket, and sat down on top of it as Tom nonchalantly entered the house and began talking to my blubbering comrade, Callie. He never made mention of the faint stink of propane, if he did in fact catch a whiff of the remaining vapors.
Another escapade followed when, the next day, I happened to mistake baking powder for baking soda during an attempt at oatmeal cookies. I won't trouble you with the melancholy details of that particular failure.
Overall, my hard-earned robotic hands have been put to good use as I prepare nutritious food to replace the foul "dog food" that Lisa and Tom place down for me each night. Lisa often fusses and tries to cajole me into eating that sub-par processed travesty, and I admit I long to speak to her and tell her that I am not starving, I am simply eating on my own. But to paraphrase the great prince of Denmark-- to speak, or not to speak... that is, the question. For, 'tis nobler for a dog to hold its tongue in the presence of the simple-minded.
Monday, December 29, 2003
Log 008:
A very Merry Christmas to me, indeed.
I can effectively sum up the Yuletide festivities in three words, my dear readers:
Sequined Bow Tie.
On Christmas morning, the family spent a solid ten minutes laughing over the white, Velcro(TM) bowtie that Tricia bestowed upon my fearless owner for the sole purpose of humiliating me. Lisa attached it around my neck immediately upon opening the package. She did not even give me a scant moment to attempt to scurry away from their gift-opening follies; she grabbed me and dressed me like a cheap version of Tommy Tune without even asking my permission beforehand.
I have been reading of the teachings of the Dalai Lama and Ghandi of late, and I decided to try a peaceful, calming approach. I relaxed and thought of the good I was doing by bringing smiles to the faces of those in the room; how my sacrifice of dignity would be rewarded by good karma and other such nonsensical concepts from the Eastern world. There must be a higher purpose to my suffering. Yet, after nearly twenty minutes, I was able to retreat quickly and without being noticed to my bed. I admit I did attempt a violent removal of the bowtie using the edge of my basket (which I have quietly gnawed to a rough edge in times of opposible digit frustration) and a pair of pliers, but I was unable to muster the strength to drag the pliers to my basket from the toolbox. Nor could I manage to plug in the electric hedgetrimmer I found in the shed. But as the good Lord knows, I did make every attempt to rid myself of the noxious apparel.
The question I pose to humanity is this: What is it about a five-pound, white-and-rich-cream-colored chihuahua mix that drives you to depraved acts of costuming? Fellows like myself do not deserve such treatment; it is degrading and vile to treat a canine differently based solely on his or her small stature. I have just as much pride and intellectual prowess as the tallest Doberman pinscher. Yet, I receive substandard treatment and minimal respect because of my, quote-cuteness-unquote. I have every intention of contacting the ACLU in the New Year. But, first, I must take care of two items on my immediate schedule. One: destroy the Dalai Lama and Ghandi books and pamphlets. Second: Route anthrax-filled envelopes to the company headquarters of Sparkled Bow-Wow Pet Costumes, Inc. Alert them via the media that small canines are no longer going to take puffy sweaters, small rain slickers and anything with sequins lying down. We Shall Overcome; I swear it.
All blessings in the New Year,
Malcolm
A very Merry Christmas to me, indeed.
I can effectively sum up the Yuletide festivities in three words, my dear readers:
Sequined Bow Tie.
On Christmas morning, the family spent a solid ten minutes laughing over the white, Velcro(TM) bowtie that Tricia bestowed upon my fearless owner for the sole purpose of humiliating me. Lisa attached it around my neck immediately upon opening the package. She did not even give me a scant moment to attempt to scurry away from their gift-opening follies; she grabbed me and dressed me like a cheap version of Tommy Tune without even asking my permission beforehand.
I have been reading of the teachings of the Dalai Lama and Ghandi of late, and I decided to try a peaceful, calming approach. I relaxed and thought of the good I was doing by bringing smiles to the faces of those in the room; how my sacrifice of dignity would be rewarded by good karma and other such nonsensical concepts from the Eastern world. There must be a higher purpose to my suffering. Yet, after nearly twenty minutes, I was able to retreat quickly and without being noticed to my bed. I admit I did attempt a violent removal of the bowtie using the edge of my basket (which I have quietly gnawed to a rough edge in times of opposible digit frustration) and a pair of pliers, but I was unable to muster the strength to drag the pliers to my basket from the toolbox. Nor could I manage to plug in the electric hedgetrimmer I found in the shed. But as the good Lord knows, I did make every attempt to rid myself of the noxious apparel.
The question I pose to humanity is this: What is it about a five-pound, white-and-rich-cream-colored chihuahua mix that drives you to depraved acts of costuming? Fellows like myself do not deserve such treatment; it is degrading and vile to treat a canine differently based solely on his or her small stature. I have just as much pride and intellectual prowess as the tallest Doberman pinscher. Yet, I receive substandard treatment and minimal respect because of my, quote-cuteness-unquote. I have every intention of contacting the ACLU in the New Year. But, first, I must take care of two items on my immediate schedule. One: destroy the Dalai Lama and Ghandi books and pamphlets. Second: Route anthrax-filled envelopes to the company headquarters of Sparkled Bow-Wow Pet Costumes, Inc. Alert them via the media that small canines are no longer going to take puffy sweaters, small rain slickers and anything with sequins lying down. We Shall Overcome; I swear it.
All blessings in the New Year,
Malcolm
Friday, December 05, 2003
Log 007:
In the name of exploration, I have given much. I have sacrificed time, energy, and relationships with fellow canines and humans alike. I have been so driven by my desire to explore a new concept in engineering; or to complete a philosophical thought-process that I have forgone eating and sleeping in my drive for excellence. Yesterday, I sacrificed some wayward tufts of fur along with my dignity.
It was a balmy, pleasant afternoon. The temperature was hovering around the 78 degree mark, and the winds were relatively calm. As I basked in the sun and considered the ramifications of proliteriat voting on the upper class, I was interrupted by Callie, who plodded over to "see what I was doing" as I sprawled happily in the sun. Her dripping saliva and offensive noises going from her intestinal tract were more than an annoyance-- it was the equivalent of a nail in my intellectual tire. I could not continue my thoughts with her standing over me and panting like an overweight Special Olympics "athlete." I had to retreat to a location where she could not reach me.
I stood, shaking off her presence, and walked quickly and with purpose towards the west fence. In the past, I had considered slipping my small frame under the fence and retiring to the quiet, unoccupied yard of the next door neighbors. I knew there to be no resident animals--canine or feline--in that yard, and I knew I could have some precious solitary time there. Today, with Callie loudly trotting along behind me, I decided today was the day I would attempt the crossing.
I was, in fact, able to squeeze beneath the fence, only managing to upset my hair but a little. The yard was exquisite in its quiet solitude. The trees whispered softly in the wind, the gravel and grass was unspoiled by large animal droppings, and best of all, my lunkhead canine 'friend' could not follow me, as there was no way the laws of physics would bend to enable her large frame to fit under that fence. I was free.
I spent the better portion of two hours enjoying my relaxation. There were no interruptions, no showers of offensive dog saliva from above. Rather, I explored the entire yard and found it to be rich in various materials I could salvage for future experiments and projects, the nature of which I cannot discuss for legal purposes.
Soon, however, I was in need of hydration and headed back to the fence to return to the house and quench my thirst. To my shock, I could not seem to fit back under the fence from which I had entered. There were landscaping stones impeding my exit. I surmised that the stones were positioning in a way that had enabled me to enter the new yard, but prevented my leaving. I pawed and dug near the stones to try to gain some clearance space, but alas, I could not make any progress.
Shortly afterwards, I heard Lisa calling my name. She was apparently searching for me throughout the house and, not finding me there, had moved out to the yard. I could hear the oaf Callie following her around the yard as she looked for me. As much as I didn't like to admit it, I knew that if I made my presence known to her, she would be able to use her hands, and thumbs, to help me escape from the yard. The only caveat was that, in letting her know about my secret retreat location, she might prevent me from returning. She is hell-bent on keeping me in the yard.
My mouth parched, I finally caved in and scratched my paws in the dried leaves near the fence to give her an audible clue to my location. She did find me and then spent a solid five minutes trying to coax me back through the gap in the fence. I attempted pushing my body through again, only to end up scraping off some of my fur on the bottom of the wood slats. I tried to tell her that I needed her active help, not her cheerleading. I needed her to find my backhoe and begin to dig me out.
Shortly afterwards, I heard Lisa call to Tom. He bent down and reached his thin arms under the fence and even he could not pull me to safety. I heard Lisa say she was going to try to enter the neighbor's property from another avenue. She returned soon afterwards, telling Tom that no one was home and the gate was locked. She spoke to Tom as though I was not there, which humiliated me and made me feel like a naive child. Which I am not. I have an IQ far superior to theirs combined; I just happened to have been born in the body of a five-pound canine.
At long last, Tom moved the landscaping stones aside and, with his assistance, I was able to make it back through to "our side" of the fence. As soon as Lisa and Tom were finished cooing over me and asking me: "Malcolm, how did you get over there, baby?" I tucked my tail down and ran quickly back to my apartment-cage to be alone once more.
I will return to that quiet yard very soon. On my next journey, I will be sure to bring the plastic explosives kit in the event that I need to blast my way back out of the yard. He that underestimates me is but a fool.
In the name of exploration, I have given much. I have sacrificed time, energy, and relationships with fellow canines and humans alike. I have been so driven by my desire to explore a new concept in engineering; or to complete a philosophical thought-process that I have forgone eating and sleeping in my drive for excellence. Yesterday, I sacrificed some wayward tufts of fur along with my dignity.
It was a balmy, pleasant afternoon. The temperature was hovering around the 78 degree mark, and the winds were relatively calm. As I basked in the sun and considered the ramifications of proliteriat voting on the upper class, I was interrupted by Callie, who plodded over to "see what I was doing" as I sprawled happily in the sun. Her dripping saliva and offensive noises going from her intestinal tract were more than an annoyance-- it was the equivalent of a nail in my intellectual tire. I could not continue my thoughts with her standing over me and panting like an overweight Special Olympics "athlete." I had to retreat to a location where she could not reach me.
I stood, shaking off her presence, and walked quickly and with purpose towards the west fence. In the past, I had considered slipping my small frame under the fence and retiring to the quiet, unoccupied yard of the next door neighbors. I knew there to be no resident animals--canine or feline--in that yard, and I knew I could have some precious solitary time there. Today, with Callie loudly trotting along behind me, I decided today was the day I would attempt the crossing.
I was, in fact, able to squeeze beneath the fence, only managing to upset my hair but a little. The yard was exquisite in its quiet solitude. The trees whispered softly in the wind, the gravel and grass was unspoiled by large animal droppings, and best of all, my lunkhead canine 'friend' could not follow me, as there was no way the laws of physics would bend to enable her large frame to fit under that fence. I was free.
I spent the better portion of two hours enjoying my relaxation. There were no interruptions, no showers of offensive dog saliva from above. Rather, I explored the entire yard and found it to be rich in various materials I could salvage for future experiments and projects, the nature of which I cannot discuss for legal purposes.
Soon, however, I was in need of hydration and headed back to the fence to return to the house and quench my thirst. To my shock, I could not seem to fit back under the fence from which I had entered. There were landscaping stones impeding my exit. I surmised that the stones were positioning in a way that had enabled me to enter the new yard, but prevented my leaving. I pawed and dug near the stones to try to gain some clearance space, but alas, I could not make any progress.
Shortly afterwards, I heard Lisa calling my name. She was apparently searching for me throughout the house and, not finding me there, had moved out to the yard. I could hear the oaf Callie following her around the yard as she looked for me. As much as I didn't like to admit it, I knew that if I made my presence known to her, she would be able to use her hands, and thumbs, to help me escape from the yard. The only caveat was that, in letting her know about my secret retreat location, she might prevent me from returning. She is hell-bent on keeping me in the yard.
My mouth parched, I finally caved in and scratched my paws in the dried leaves near the fence to give her an audible clue to my location. She did find me and then spent a solid five minutes trying to coax me back through the gap in the fence. I attempted pushing my body through again, only to end up scraping off some of my fur on the bottom of the wood slats. I tried to tell her that I needed her active help, not her cheerleading. I needed her to find my backhoe and begin to dig me out.
Shortly afterwards, I heard Lisa call to Tom. He bent down and reached his thin arms under the fence and even he could not pull me to safety. I heard Lisa say she was going to try to enter the neighbor's property from another avenue. She returned soon afterwards, telling Tom that no one was home and the gate was locked. She spoke to Tom as though I was not there, which humiliated me and made me feel like a naive child. Which I am not. I have an IQ far superior to theirs combined; I just happened to have been born in the body of a five-pound canine.
At long last, Tom moved the landscaping stones aside and, with his assistance, I was able to make it back through to "our side" of the fence. As soon as Lisa and Tom were finished cooing over me and asking me: "Malcolm, how did you get over there, baby?" I tucked my tail down and ran quickly back to my apartment-cage to be alone once more.
I will return to that quiet yard very soon. On my next journey, I will be sure to bring the plastic explosives kit in the event that I need to blast my way back out of the yard. He that underestimates me is but a fool.
Friday, November 21, 2003
Log 006:
It has been roughly a week since I was subjected to a visit to the groomers. While I was shrewdly disappointed by the lack of professionalism by the staff-- the groomer was, after all, wearing a polyester/nylon blend smock with snaps up the front, for goodness' sake-- I was pleasantly surprised by the sensation of being given a bath by one experienced in the nuances of canine bathing. Allow me to explain.
First, I was shepherded into a small metal cage, which caused me to worry that I would be imprisoned there for the remainder of the day. This was, of course, a day that I had much on my schedule in the way of engineering and repairs on the hovercraft engine; but yet again, Lisa decided to load me into the car without a moment's notice and take me to the store. She had mentioned something about purchasing me a new brush, as the old one (which was a bright pink color that I despised and saw as emasculating) was lost. Since I also knew that I could accompany her to her office after the trip to the store, I went along willingly. After all, I have observed much from my small blue bed on the floor behind her desk. I have full view of her computer monitor and listen to her conversations. While I am unsure as to how the subtle points of bus manufacturing and repair will ever come of use, I see no harm in absorbing the information.
But I digress. At the store, which is a large warehouse of "squeaky" toys and flavored treats that appeal to the lowest denominator, we quickly identified a brush that we both thought would work well. Lisa, to her credit, chose one that was priced on the higher end of the retail spectrum, so I knew quality was the issue of choice, not price. As we perused the selection, the groomer approached in her cheap smock and peering down at me with her lazy eye. I was alarmed when I heard them discussing "baths" and "trimming." For up until this point, I had forgotten that I was not entirely pristine. That morning, I had spotted a small gecko approaching the decorative carved pumpkin that was slowly rotting in the sun in the yard, following a Halloween gathering the weekend earlier. I admit to having a weakness for the wee lizards, and usually entice them to join me for some companionship for a few hours before the people and Callie come crashing into my vision yet again and the lizards hurriedly depart.
I had followed this particular gecko with the interest of a dog that has risen with the sun and was feeling energetic and alive in the crisp morning air. The little fellow retreated into the folds of the highly-fragrant pumpkin, so I naturally followed him. However, my cranium would not fit inside the whole pumpkin, but I did manage to get a substantial look around the interior of the decomposing gourd. It was fascinating. The chemical breakdown had created a sulfuric gas, which in turn was reacting with the heat from the sun to hasten the decomposition process. I mentally took notes on the various stages of breakdown. When I emerged from the pumpkin's shell, I realized I had quite a bit of refuse on my face and shoulders. I wore it with pride; the pride of an explorer; an intellectual with a panache for doing things hands-on. Or paws-on, in this case.
Lisa was taken aback by the odor, however, and deemed it was time for a "professional groomer" to take over the bathing chores. And that was how I ended up being soaked in a marvelously warm bath and massaged gently with a masculine-scented liquid soap and conditioning treatment.
My ears were attended to, and my coat carefully trimmed and shaped. Afterwards, I was placed inside a warm cage yet again-- which humiliated me at first, but I soon softened when I realized that warm air was being pumped into the cage to dry my fur to a fluffy, voluminous finish. After I was dried, the pedestrian groomer tied a green "bandana" around my neck, which I resented at first because I assumed it made me look "gay." But when I spotted my reflection in the glass windows, I realized I now resembled a young, robust John Wayne, albeit one with white fur and a curled tail. I decided it did not look all that awful, and I submitted to the attentions of the groomer.
When Lisa arrived to retrieve me within the hour, she was quite pleased with my appearance. I longed to tell her that she needed to attend a grooming academy to learn the proper methods of meeting my hygiene needs, as her methods of washing me-- dousing me with the crude sprayer in the kitchen sink and soaping me up with a horrendous pina colada scented shampoo-- need extensive improvement. Perhaps when I get the hydraulic power gloves working, I can type her a memo.
Until next time,
Malcolm
It has been roughly a week since I was subjected to a visit to the groomers. While I was shrewdly disappointed by the lack of professionalism by the staff-- the groomer was, after all, wearing a polyester/nylon blend smock with snaps up the front, for goodness' sake-- I was pleasantly surprised by the sensation of being given a bath by one experienced in the nuances of canine bathing. Allow me to explain.
First, I was shepherded into a small metal cage, which caused me to worry that I would be imprisoned there for the remainder of the day. This was, of course, a day that I had much on my schedule in the way of engineering and repairs on the hovercraft engine; but yet again, Lisa decided to load me into the car without a moment's notice and take me to the store. She had mentioned something about purchasing me a new brush, as the old one (which was a bright pink color that I despised and saw as emasculating) was lost. Since I also knew that I could accompany her to her office after the trip to the store, I went along willingly. After all, I have observed much from my small blue bed on the floor behind her desk. I have full view of her computer monitor and listen to her conversations. While I am unsure as to how the subtle points of bus manufacturing and repair will ever come of use, I see no harm in absorbing the information.
But I digress. At the store, which is a large warehouse of "squeaky" toys and flavored treats that appeal to the lowest denominator, we quickly identified a brush that we both thought would work well. Lisa, to her credit, chose one that was priced on the higher end of the retail spectrum, so I knew quality was the issue of choice, not price. As we perused the selection, the groomer approached in her cheap smock and peering down at me with her lazy eye. I was alarmed when I heard them discussing "baths" and "trimming." For up until this point, I had forgotten that I was not entirely pristine. That morning, I had spotted a small gecko approaching the decorative carved pumpkin that was slowly rotting in the sun in the yard, following a Halloween gathering the weekend earlier. I admit to having a weakness for the wee lizards, and usually entice them to join me for some companionship for a few hours before the people and Callie come crashing into my vision yet again and the lizards hurriedly depart.
I had followed this particular gecko with the interest of a dog that has risen with the sun and was feeling energetic and alive in the crisp morning air. The little fellow retreated into the folds of the highly-fragrant pumpkin, so I naturally followed him. However, my cranium would not fit inside the whole pumpkin, but I did manage to get a substantial look around the interior of the decomposing gourd. It was fascinating. The chemical breakdown had created a sulfuric gas, which in turn was reacting with the heat from the sun to hasten the decomposition process. I mentally took notes on the various stages of breakdown. When I emerged from the pumpkin's shell, I realized I had quite a bit of refuse on my face and shoulders. I wore it with pride; the pride of an explorer; an intellectual with a panache for doing things hands-on. Or paws-on, in this case.
Lisa was taken aback by the odor, however, and deemed it was time for a "professional groomer" to take over the bathing chores. And that was how I ended up being soaked in a marvelously warm bath and massaged gently with a masculine-scented liquid soap and conditioning treatment.
My ears were attended to, and my coat carefully trimmed and shaped. Afterwards, I was placed inside a warm cage yet again-- which humiliated me at first, but I soon softened when I realized that warm air was being pumped into the cage to dry my fur to a fluffy, voluminous finish. After I was dried, the pedestrian groomer tied a green "bandana" around my neck, which I resented at first because I assumed it made me look "gay." But when I spotted my reflection in the glass windows, I realized I now resembled a young, robust John Wayne, albeit one with white fur and a curled tail. I decided it did not look all that awful, and I submitted to the attentions of the groomer.
When Lisa arrived to retrieve me within the hour, she was quite pleased with my appearance. I longed to tell her that she needed to attend a grooming academy to learn the proper methods of meeting my hygiene needs, as her methods of washing me-- dousing me with the crude sprayer in the kitchen sink and soaping me up with a horrendous pina colada scented shampoo-- need extensive improvement. Perhaps when I get the hydraulic power gloves working, I can type her a memo.
Until next time,
Malcolm
Wednesday, November 05, 2003
Log 005:
I would have preferred to spend an evening in quiet contemplation the past Monday night. The autumn season has begun, and I have been enjoying a leisurely stroll through the backyard, letting the cooler November winds tousle my hair and chill my feet. I look forward to spending the afternoon in the cooler air and then retiring to the cabernet-colored couch in the evening, where I relax and think upon the wonders of the natural world and how, in such a time of political unrest and sagging economy (they say it is looking optimistic but my blue chips say otherwise), the simple joy of an early-setting sun and a full bowl of sliced beef in a gravy sauce can make a mature dog quite content.
However, humiliation came to visit me once more on Monday evening. As I was lounging on the floor, performing a few yoga poses (in this case, the kneeling dog, as it were), the metal clasp on my neckwear become ensnared in a long fiber in the carpet. I worked to free myself from this long thread of yarn, but to no avail. I cursed my lack of thumbs yet again! Why, O Creator, was I made thus? Not a day passes in which I do not pine for a thick digit at the base of each front foot.
As I sat there, tethered to the carpet, Callie came bounding into the room and stared at me. I noted the glazed-over look in her eyes; she does not have the intellect to comprehend that I was in need of assistance. Instead, she approached and sniffed me, and proceeded to drip saliva from her loose-lipped mouth onto my person. I shuddered and waited for her to depart and leave me in my sorrowful state to brood alone.
Several hours passed before Tom arrived home and noticed that I was imprisoned there on the carpet like an untamed circus elephant. To my horror, he began to laugh a deep, hearty laugh and only after a few agonizing long moments did he reach down to free me. I could not bring myself to make eye contact with him through these humiliating moments. Callie stood nearby, watching with feigned interest as she waited for him to turn his attentions back to her and her ridiculous "squeakie egg" toy covered in saliva and hair.
I believe my next project may be the creation of a glove, of sorts, that can be fitted over my front paws and would enable me to grip objects. Using a modified spring mechanism, I believe I can fashion a hand that, if my orders arrive from Boeing next week as planned, will be operating using a pneumatic device with titanium steel fingers for grasping and pulling. Of course, I am pondering whether I should move back production on the amphibious vehicle in order to accommodate this project, but it may prove fruitful to do so. Hands would be of extraordinary use.
Until next we meet in cyberspace,
Malcolm
I would have preferred to spend an evening in quiet contemplation the past Monday night. The autumn season has begun, and I have been enjoying a leisurely stroll through the backyard, letting the cooler November winds tousle my hair and chill my feet. I look forward to spending the afternoon in the cooler air and then retiring to the cabernet-colored couch in the evening, where I relax and think upon the wonders of the natural world and how, in such a time of political unrest and sagging economy (they say it is looking optimistic but my blue chips say otherwise), the simple joy of an early-setting sun and a full bowl of sliced beef in a gravy sauce can make a mature dog quite content.
However, humiliation came to visit me once more on Monday evening. As I was lounging on the floor, performing a few yoga poses (in this case, the kneeling dog, as it were), the metal clasp on my neckwear become ensnared in a long fiber in the carpet. I worked to free myself from this long thread of yarn, but to no avail. I cursed my lack of thumbs yet again! Why, O Creator, was I made thus? Not a day passes in which I do not pine for a thick digit at the base of each front foot.
As I sat there, tethered to the carpet, Callie came bounding into the room and stared at me. I noted the glazed-over look in her eyes; she does not have the intellect to comprehend that I was in need of assistance. Instead, she approached and sniffed me, and proceeded to drip saliva from her loose-lipped mouth onto my person. I shuddered and waited for her to depart and leave me in my sorrowful state to brood alone.
Several hours passed before Tom arrived home and noticed that I was imprisoned there on the carpet like an untamed circus elephant. To my horror, he began to laugh a deep, hearty laugh and only after a few agonizing long moments did he reach down to free me. I could not bring myself to make eye contact with him through these humiliating moments. Callie stood nearby, watching with feigned interest as she waited for him to turn his attentions back to her and her ridiculous "squeakie egg" toy covered in saliva and hair.
I believe my next project may be the creation of a glove, of sorts, that can be fitted over my front paws and would enable me to grip objects. Using a modified spring mechanism, I believe I can fashion a hand that, if my orders arrive from Boeing next week as planned, will be operating using a pneumatic device with titanium steel fingers for grasping and pulling. Of course, I am pondering whether I should move back production on the amphibious vehicle in order to accommodate this project, but it may prove fruitful to do so. Hands would be of extraordinary use.
Until next we meet in cyberspace,
Malcolm
