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:
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:
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.
Some number of days ago, I took this photo of my cat:
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.
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.
Nij: Ummmm….whatcha doin’?
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*
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?
Sasha: Wait, what’s that on your whiskers?
Sasha: Your whiskers are green and blue. And you have paint on your face.
Sasha: Oh, no, have you been in the baby’s room?
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.
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.
WP: Hey Thump, you okay there, buddy?
Thumper: I’m fine. *moves a little closer*
Thumper: It’s cool, everything’s cool. *moves a little closer*
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.
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?
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*
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.
I’m sure nobody’s forgotten Moto, King of Pants.
It usually goes something like this:
Moto: *stands and hooks claws into jeans* *stretches* Heeeeeeeeeeeeeyyy.
WP: Oh, hey.
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.
Moto: *full force headbutt* I love you.
WP: That’s n—
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*
Click Image To Make Readable:
(Thanks to Nate for title and the reminder about Berkeley Bowl West. Nate is awesome. Go read his blog.)
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, 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.
Advertising has been gross and scary for a long time—no matter how sexy it is when Don Draper does it. But lately I’ve been disgusted by a number of ads I have seen. I mean, let’s not forget this.
But let’s also look at this:
When I first saw this, my first few thoughts were entirely made up of, “What the fuckin’ fuck?”
Look, folks. I have asthma. I have severe asthma that is occasionally really scary. My mom was a smoker when she was pregnant with me and until I was 13, and it’s probable that this was at least part of the reason for my everyday inability to breathe. I never think about this unless I see this advertisement. And then I am horrified—not that I have asthma, and not that it might be because of her (former) addiction to cigarettes—but that some advertising motherfucker wants her to feel shittier about it than she already does.
There’s got to be a better way to suggest to parents that they stop smoking than this passive-aggressive guilt-inducing crap.
Before I say more, I recently saw an ad on Hulu.com that I cannot find on line (I was so horrified by it that I didn’t actually stop to write down the organization that put it out there—and if you find it, please link it to me so I can add it to this post). In this ad, a woman is being rescued from a natural disaster and is forced to leave her dog behind to drown while she is pulled away in a helicopter. The ad wants people to make arrangements for their pets in the event of such a disaster.
Really? REALLY? How is this fucking emotional blackmail necessary? I don’t know a single person with pets who wasn’t deeply affected by the predicament of the dogs and cats left behind to fend for themselves and/or die during Katrina. I know people who specifically went there to rescue animals. I would have to be physically restrained, possibly knocked out, and certainly dragged away before I abandoned my cat to such a fate. I am, as a responsible pet owner, always aware of the fact that he has no control over his environment.
I know that television ads have to pander to the lowest common denominator. I am still incredibly disappointed and displeased at the direction in which we are heading. I am also insulted and disgusted. Come on, advertisers. Even the slightest nod toward my intelligence would be welcome. There’s no need to hit below the belt. I can take this on the chin.
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.
Moto: Hey, watcha doin? You peeing? Is that what you’re doing?
W: Yeah, seems like it.
Moto: Can I touch that?
Moto: What about this? And are those pants? I want to be in your pants.
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*
Monday: Cat is miserable and scratching his fur off. Poor guy.
Thursday: Cat is infested and leaving flea parts and flecks of blood everywhere. Poor me.
Sunday: What is most likely to eradicate fleas and leave you and your pet alive? Must research.
Wednesday: I have begun the process of wiping them out. Tons of laundry, vacuuming, chemicals. My cat thinks that I am trying to kill him. A flea dip results in yowling and screaming for help. The neighbors do not come, and little Kitty Genovese must endure his bath. I keep telling him that it’s for the best.
Saturday: He’s not talking to me. I have changed his scent, replaced his collar, and he still itches.
Sunday: All is quiet.
Monday: More action must be taken. I thought them merely tiny groups of fleas. They were actually trained soldiers practicing guerrilla maneuvers on the part of a much larger organization.
Monday night: It’s cool. I can handle this. I am bigger than them, and I have a vacuum cleaner.
Tuesday: There are more than I thought. And they might have guns.
Wednesday: I say we take off and nuke the entire site from orbit. It’s the only way to be sure.
I think they might be mobilizing, so I am doing this today. We can’t let tOH GOD THEY ARE ON MEEEEEEE