Look At This Fucking Dog
Facebook is just fucking filled with people expressing various levels of bummerhood today. I don’t know what the hell is in the air, but it prompted my buddy Indigo to exclaim (on Facebook): “Dude, are they crop dusting with depressives around here, or what?”
Good fucking question, my friend.
There aren’t enough happy things happening for people right now. So, here. Look at this fucking dog. This dog right here. LOOK AT HIM. He’s fucking happy. Look at that fucking smile. Holy fucking shit, this dog is adorably thrilled to exist right now.
This fucking dog just had a fucking treat. It was stinky and gross and he fucking LOVED it. This dog’s name is fucking Guinness. How fucking awesome is that name for a fucking dog? Guinness is 90 fucking pounds of dog. That’s a huge fucking dog. And all he wants you to do is fucking cuddle and scratch his fucking butt. That awesome fucking place right above his tail. That’s all he wants to be this fucking happy.
Guinness has the best fucking ears ever. Fucking look at them. They are lopsided and fucking soft and you fucking wish you could pet them right now.
So if you are having a fucking awful shitshow of a day?
Look at this fucking dog.
Working with Guinness
If you follow me on Instagram or Twitter or pay even the slightest bit of attention to my (personal) Facebook posts, you know that at my new job, we have an office dog. He belongs to Toni, the founder and executive director of our organization. His name is Guinness, but I tend to just hash him as #officedog. For those of you who have the good sense and taste not to follow me on Twitter or Instagram, this is Guinness:
Yes. His ears are always like that.
Guinness is not always content to hang out on the couch and watch me work. Sometimes he has to tell me just exactly how bored he is and just exactly how much attention I am not giving him. Now, he’s a Rottweiler-German Shepherd mix, so he’s not just a relatively large dog, he’s strong. His method of getting attention from me involves shoving his nose under my arm and flipping my hand over his head. Repeatedly.
Note: Guinness only speaks Dog, but he speaks it A LOT. He’s a talker.
Me: *working diligently*
Guin: Arrrph. *nose on arm*
Me: Hey, Mister. *pets dog, goes back to work*
Guin: Hrooo. *armflip*
Me: Okay, okay. *pets dog, goes back to work*
Guin: Ahroo. HRF. *armflip*
Me: Guinness. They aren’t paying me to scritch you. *pets dog, goes back to work*
Guin: Yes they are. *armflip*
Me: WTF, you don’t speak English.
Guin: ROOROOOROOO. *armflip*
Toni: GUINNESS. LIE DOWN.
Guin: HMPH. *curls up directly behind chair* *heavy sigh*
Me: *quiet sigh*
Of course, I’m completely in love with this dog. I’d happily put up with his armflips pretty much all day if I could. I think the love is mutual:
Catsitting: A Timeline of Sorts
This is the general progression for any time I catsit for longer than a few days.
For the record, I did not actually find any cat journals. All cat journal entries are 57% fictional.
Click image if you think WordPress compression sucks.
In Which My Cat Pouts and Plots
Some number of days ago, I took this photo of my cat:
I rather liked it, but over drinks one evening, C expressed some concern over the fact that it looks like he is plotting my death. So I made this for her:
But then I couldn’t decide whether he was plotting or pouting. So I made these:
And now…now I just don’t trust my cat anymore. Let’s not forget: he’s got thumbs. There’s no telling what he could do if he set his nut-sized brain to it.
Red Dead Redemption With Nijinsky
I’m sure y’all remember Moto, by now.
This handsome fellow is Nijinsky. Nijinsky is Moto’s long-suffering-yet-charmingly-(mostofthetime)-neurotic older brother.
Nijinsky is never more affectionate than when I am playing Red Dead Redemption. Without fail, every session of gaming involves a variant on this conversation:
Nij: Ummmm….whatcha doin’?
Me: Playing.
Nij: Soooo…. *headbutts my knee*
Me: Just a sec, buddy.
Nij: No. Right now. *paw on my leg*
Me: Nijinsky. Can’t you—
Nij: But I love you. So much. Right NOW. *nose on my nose*
Me: NIJINSKY I HAVE TO PROTECT THE WAGON FROM THESE BANDI—Well, fuck it. Now I’m dead.
Nij: *purr* *gentle headbutt*
GUEST BLOG POST! — Painting With Otto
Remember Otto? As it turns out, he’s much better with paint than he is with unfamiliar musical instruments—as my beloved friends Sasha and Nate discovered while painting their imminent baby’s room this week (“Imminent Baby” is now my Britney Spears cover band name). He likes to help. And by “help,” I mean, “‘help’”. Sasha submitted this for your perusal and enjoyment, Gentle Readers.
So with no more ado, Conversations Sasha Gets To Have With Otto, and don’t forget—Otto speaks in all caps. It’s a thing.
Sasha: Hey, Otto. What are you up to?
Otto: NOTHING!
Sasha: Wait, what’s that on your whiskers?
Otto: NOBODY!
Sasha: Your whiskers are green and blue. And you have paint on your face.
Otto: HELPING!
Sasha: Oh, no, have you been in the baby’s room?
Otto: HELPING!
Sasha: Dammit, cat! I’m eight months pregnant. Don’t make me chase you. Oh, shit. Stay out of there!
Otto: *running away* HELPIIIING!
WP note: It’s true. He was definitely HELPING. I visited the apartment last night, and Otto had at least two different colors on his neck and whiskers. Good thing everything goes with black.
Blog Composition
My dear friend Sasha pointed out that my blog composition has settled into a sort of triangle of topics. And I’m cool with that. It’s just not the topics I thought they would be. Witness:
Once again, the cats have won the internet. Resistance was futile. We’ve all been assimilated. And with that in mind, prepare yourselves for the most recent conversation with Otto, a guest blog from the abovementioned Sasha.
Thunder with Thumper
This is Thumper:
You may not realize this, but Thumper is actually my cat, whereas Moto, Otto, and Nutz all belong in various San Francisco apartments to which the unwitting residents have given me keys.
*THUNDER*
WP: Hey Thump, you okay there, buddy?
Thumper: I’m fine. *moves a little closer*
*THUNDER*
Thumper: It’s cool, everything’s cool. *moves a little closer*
*THUNDER*
Thumper: I’M TOTALLY FINE OVER HERE, EVERYTHING’S FINE. *pause* FINE. *rolls closer*
WP: Hey little man. You can come all the way over here.
*THUNDER*
Thumper: You know, that chair does look comfortable. But it’s not because I’m scared. And I’m gonna just curl right up on you. Because…because you’re warm. Okay?
*THUNDER*
WP: Look buddy—
Thumper: Shut UP. I’m FINE. I’m not even LOOKING AT YOU.
WP: *pets the cat reassuringly*
Thumper: OH THANK GOD WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG? *PURRPURRPURRPURR*
WP: *sigh*
Guitar With Otto
This is Otto (and my guitar):
(Otto speaks in all caps.)
Otto: WHAT IS THAT?
WP: It’s a guitar. You have seen these before.
Otto: YEAH BUT WHAT IS THAT?
WP: It’s a guitar, Otto.
Otto: DO I EAT IT?
WP: You can try.
Otto: OKAY. BUT WHAT IS IT?
WP: It’s a— Okay. Listen. *strums guitar*
Otto: OMG WTF WHAT IS THAT YOU SAID I COULD EAT IT.
And then he ran into the hallway and yelled at me from behind the door for five minutes before he forgot what had happened. The photo was taken at his second attempt to determine the nature of the guitar.
Cuddling with Moto
I’m sure nobody’s forgotten Moto, King of Pants.
He may have a thing for jeans and making me fall down, but when Moto is not invading my space in the bathroom or trying to kill me, he can be very affectionate. Very, very, aggressively affectionate.
It usually goes something like this:
Moto: *stands and hooks claws into jeans* *stretches* Heeeeeeeeeeeeeyyy.
WP: Oh, hey.
Moto: Heeeeeeeeeeeeeyyy.
WP: Yeah, you said that already.
Moto: Heeeeeyyy. I’m on your paaaaants.
WP: *scoops Moto up* Not anymore, jerk.
Moto: *puts nose on my glasses* *purrs* I love you.
WP: That’s—
Moto: *full force headbutt* I love you.
WP: That’s n—
headbutt
WP: Mo—
headbutt
WP: *tries to spit out newly acquired fur* Okay—headbutt—I’m gonna—headbutt—put you—headbutt—down now.
Moto: PURR *hugs my hand*
WP: *ices face*
Unicorn Free to Loving Home (Must Love Rainbows)
Brunch is the most important meal of the week. So naturally negotiations with regard to favored brunch spots are going to be intense. Witness this (text message) negotiation between me and my friend, who will be known as Alexis, because that’s totally her name. I won’t give out her phone number for less than $1k/person, though.
Note: ALL text messages have been edited for grammar and spelling (this convo happened between 1 and 1:30am) and some have been ellided because they just clutter shit up.
[We decide to get brunch next weekend. I suggest Luna Park. She says...]
Alexis: Can we go somewhere less expensive and with better food/drink?
WP: Right. I am gonna go think about cheap brunch places that don’t serve crappy bloody marys and also how to catch unicorns.
Alexis: Cynic.
WP: Also, I like oxygen.
Alexis: It can be done. Tipsy Pig in the marina has fabulous bloodies, but we’re not going to the marina.
WP: Right. *scribbles over marina on map of SF brunch spots.* NO MARINA. Farmer Brown?
Alexis: I don’t really like the food there either.
WP: HEY UNICORN? WHERE CAN I FIND A BRUNCH PLACE ALEXIS LIKES WITH GOOD BLOODY MARYS AND, LIKE, A PIRATE SERVER AND A LIVE BAND? ALSO I WANT GOLD PLATES. CHEAP.
Alexis: Ooh, that sounds like a great place! Let’s go there.
WP: Jerk.
[...series of texts in which we narrow brunch spots down to two and I flip a coin to decide...]
WP: Okay. Brunch at Farmer Brown. In other news, I have a unicorn, now.
Alexis: I want one.
WP: Turns out unicorns take up a lot of space? Um. Honestly, I dont know where you would keep one at your place. Also, I think they are allergic to mold.
Alexis: I don’t want one. I don’t think they poop rainbows. I’m pretty sure it’s just regular horse poop with glitter. I don’t want to clean up after that.
WP: Are you kidding? This fucking unicorn has been here for 15 minutes and it’s already left a pile of rainbow in my living room. Worse? No pot of gold. WTF.
WP: Want some rainbow?
Alexis: Nope.
WP: Damn. Hey, this whole convo just gave new meaning to “taste the rainbow.”
Click on the pic to buy the t-shirt and support the artist, Mike Jacobsen, who graciously
gave me permission to use this image.
Cat (Not) on Fire
My cat worships at the base of the heater.
“I love you,” I imagine him whispering tenderly,
Reaching a paw out to touch the tile on which
it rests,
purring only for the flame that is just—
to my relief—
out of his reach.
“I love you,” he says, “but Heater, oh beloved Heater—
can you do something about
this dry food situation?”
The heater sighs regretfully, and creaks its sad reply:
“No.
Alas, no.”
Dressing With Moto
Remember Moto Nimitz, bathroom companion?
I AM MOTO, DESTROYER OF
WORLDS AND PANTS
Moto decided to help me with my post-shower routine today.
Moto: Hey, you’re wet.
WP: Hey yeah, I am.
Moto: I can pull your towel down.
WP: Hey, now. I wasn’t done with that.
Moto: Yes you were.
WP: Fine. I’ll just put my pants on.
Moto: Those are pants! I want to be in your pants.
WP: Moto, not again.
Moto: PAAAAAAANTS! I’m IN THEM!
WP: GODDAMN IT MOTO.
Moto: PAAAAANTS! Oooooh, whuzzat?
WP: NOT YOURS. *reaches down to remove cat from pants*
Moto: PAAAA–HEY. Not cool, pants monkey. Now this is happening. *pounces on foot*
WP, with pants still down and cat attacking foot: I—agh…NO—MOTO!
…and that’s the story of how I ended up half-naked on the floor of my friends’ bedroom with my pants around my ankles, a cat nuzzling my ear, and a sincere appreciation for the fact that cats use neither cameras nor social media.
Working with Nutz
This is Nutz:
This is the most recent conversation I had with Nutz:
Nutz: Hey, you are just sitting there.
Me: Working. I’m working, Nutz.
Nutz: Hey.
Me: Hey.
Nutz: Hey, my paw’s on your leg now. Cuz you are just sitting there.
Me: Nutz. I’m working. These cases aren’t going to read themselves.
Nutz: Hey, both of my front paws are on your leg, now.
Me: Okay, I can put my arm over you to type.
Nutz: What if my front paws were on your other leg, and I was, like, standing on your lap?
Me: I can still see over you.
Nutz: And what if I were to lean into your chest and rub my head on your chin?
Me: I—Nutz, goddamn it.
Nutz: And what if I were to flip over onto my back in your arms and put my paw on your cheek?
Me: OHFORFUCKSSAKE. *cuddles cat, then removes him from lap and goes back to work*
2 minutes later…
Nutz: Hey, you are just sitting there.
Me: *sigh*
Peeing with Moto
This is Moto Nimitz:
This is my most recent conversation with Moto, who managed to get the door open to the bathroom while I was inside:
Moto: Hey, there you are.
Whiskeypants: Uh. Yeah.
Moto: Hey. Hey. Hey.
W: Hey.
Moto: Hey, watcha doin? You peeing? Is that what you’re doing?
W: Yeah, seems like it.
Moto: Can I touch that?
W: No.
Moto: What about this? And are those pants? I want to be in your pants.
W: MOTO.
Moto: Paaaants! I’m in them!
W: Moto. Moto, stop. Moto. MOTO THAT TICKLES.
Moto: Paaaants! Captive audience! Paaaaants!
W: Cat. I need to leave the room. And walk. *falls over*
Moto: *purr*
