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The inner workings of the mind of Malcolm, distinguished canine.
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
