Bleeding Heart Liberal Lyric Quandary

Back in June, I was preparing for my annual getaway with The Hoz.  Aside from packing my clothes, planning & shopping food, I wanted to load up our dead 3G iPhone with music and use it as an iTouch.  I wanted to choose songs that would be familiar to my travel mates and would encourage loud, drunken, singing.  


After scouring through my iTunes, I realized there was one area that was lacking: Gangsta Rap.  For some reason, my friends and I loved singing along to it in the 90's.  One particular favorite was NWA.  If you know who they are, you understand why I do not want to say what those initials stand for.  Back then, I had no problems singing along uncensored.  But now that I am older, I just can't do it.  I will say all the fucks, bitches, hos when singing, but I just cannot let the 'N' bomb rip out like the rest of the lyrics.  


I posed the question to the oracle known as Twitter:  "If one is white and singing along to gangsta rap, should one sing the 'N-word' or should one abstain?"  The replies came quickly, but sadly I got a hung jury.  The same amount of 'Sing it' told me to 'abstain'.  So I decided to sing a different word in its place. 


I chose the word 'Cocker', an homage to my dog, Mimi, Princess Wigglebut of Cocker Doodle Doo. Here is how I now sing the song: 

Gangsta, Gangsta by NWA 

[Verse 1: Ice Cube] 

Here's a little somethin' bout a COCKER like me
never shoulda been let out the penititary
Ice Cube would like ta say
That I'm a crazy mutha fucka from around the way
Since I was a youth, I smoked weed out
Now I'm the mutha fucka that ya read about
Takin' a life or two that's what the hell I do you don't like how I'm livin well fuck you!

This is a gang, and I'm in it
My man Dre'll fuck you up in a minute
With a right left, right left you're toothless
And then you say goddamn they ruthless!
Everwhere we go they say [damn!]
N W A's fuckin' up tha program
And then you realize we don't care
We don't just say no, we to busy sayin' yeah!
To drinkin' straight out the eight bottle
Do I look like a mutha fuckin role model?
To a kid lookin' up ta me
Life ain't nothin but bitches and money.
Cause I'm tha type o' COCKER that's built ta last

If ya fuck wit me I'll put a foot in ya ass
See I don't give a fuck 'cause I keep bailin
Yo, what the fuck are they yellin

[Chorus:]

Gangsta, Gangsta! That's what they're yellin
[KRS One] "It's not about a salary, it's all about reality"
Gangsta, Gangsta! That's what they're yellin
"Hopin you sophisticated motherfuckers hear what I have to say"

[Verse 2: Ice Cube]
When me and my posse stepped in the house
All the punk-ass COCKERZ start breakin out

Cause you know, they know whassup
So we started lookin for the bitches with the big butts
Like her, but she keep cryin
"I got a boyfriend" Bitch stop lyin
Dumb-ass hooker ain't nuttin but a dyke
Suddenly I see, some niggaz that I don't like
Walked over to em, and said, "Whassup?"
The first COCKER  that I saw, hit em in the jaw

Ren started stompin em, and so did E
By that time got rushed by security
Out the door, but we don't quit
Ren said, "Let's start some shit!"
I got a shotgun, and here's the plot
Takin' COCKERZ  out with a flurry of buckshots

Boom boom boom, yeah I was gunnin
And then you look, all you see is COCKERZ runnin
and fallin and yellin and pushin and screamin
and cussin, I stepped back, and I kept bustin
And then I realized it's time for me to go
So I stopped, jumped in the vehicle
It's like this, because of that who-ride
N.W.A. is wanted for a homicide
Cause I'm the type of  COCKER built to last
Fuck wit me, I'll put my foot in your ass
See I don't give a fuck, cause I keep bailin
Yo, what the fuck are they yellin?

[Chorus:]

Gangsta, Gangsta! That's what they're yellin
[KRS One] "It's not about a salary, it's all about reality"
Gangsta, Gangsta! That's what they're yellin
"He'll tell you exactly how he feel, and don't want a fuckin thing back"

[Verse 3: Ice Cube]
Homies all standin around, just hangin
Some dope-dealin, some gang-bangin
We decide to roll and we deep
See a COCKER on Dayton's and we creep
Real slow, and before you know
I had my shotgun pointed in the window
He got scared, and hit the gas
Right then, I knew I has to smoke his ass
He kept rollin, I jumped in the bucket
We couldn't catch him, so I said fuck it
Then we headed right back to the fort
Sweatin all the bitches in the biker shorts
We didn't get no play, from the ladies
With six COCKERZ in a car are you crazy?
She was scared, and it was showin
We all said "Fuck you bitch!" and kept goin
To the hood, and we was fin to
Find somethin else to get into
Like some pussy, or in fact
A bum rush, but we call it rat pack
On a COCKER for nuttin at all
Ice Cube'll go stupid when I'm full of eight ball
I might stumble, but I won't lose
Now I'm dressed in the county blues
Cause I'm the type of COCKER that's built to last
If you Fuck wit me, I'll put my foot in your ass
I don't give a fuck, cause I keep bailin
Yo, what the fuck are they yellin?

[Interlude: Ice Cube, Dr. Dre]

(Wait a minute, wait a minute, cut this shit)
{Man whatcha gonna do now?}
"What we're gonna do right here is go way back"
(How far you goin back?)
"Way back"
[Slick Rick] "As we go a lil somethin like this"

Here's a lil gangsta, short in size
A t-shirt and Levi's is his only disguise
Built like a tank yet hard to hit
Ice Cube and Eazy E cold runnin shit

[Verse 4: Eazy E, MC Ren]
Well I'm Eazy E the one they're talkin about COCKER tried to roll the dice and just crapped out
Police tried to roll, so it's time to go
I creeped away real slow and jumped in the six-fo'
Wit the "Diamond in the back, sun-roof top"
Diggin the scene with the gangsta lean
Cause I'm the E, I don't slang or bang
I just smoke motherfuckers like it ain't no thang
And all you bitches, you know I'm talkin to you
"We want to fuck you Eazy!" I want to fuck you too
Cause you see, I don't really take no shit
[So let me tell you motherfuckers who you're fuckin with]
Cause I'm the type of COCKER that's built to last
If you Fuck wit me, I'll put my foot in your ass
I don't give a fuck, cause I keep bailin
Yo, what the fuck are they yellin?

[Chorus:]

Gangsta, Gangsta! That's what they're yellin
[KRS One] "It's not about a salary, it's all about reality"
Gangsta, Gangsta! That's what they're yellin
"He'll fuck up you and yours, and anything that gets in his way"

Gangsta, Gangsta! That's what they're yellin
[KRS One] "It's not about a salary, it's all about reality"
Gangsta, Gangsta! That's what they're yellin
"He'll just call you a low-life motherfucker, and talk about your
funky ways"

                   Sing along, if you wish!

It took a few tries to make sure the word change stuck, but it did, and that is how I sing it.  Sing it loudly, to the dog. So now, my prissy cocker spaniel thinks she is a bad ass. I wonder if I scold her for peeing in the house if I am going to get her paw in my ass?  

Just one vowel.

Look at that face.  It barely has a nose.  That face makes a lot of noise.  We call those noises, snarfles.  I had never had a Pug before The Bean.  I had no idea what to expect.  I certainly didn't expect all of the licking.  The snoring.  The odd noises that come out of this sweet little dog.  She makes me smile and laugh every day.


One night, I took the pug and the cocker spaniel to Mr. Misha's band practice. The band practices by themselves during the week, but on the weekends, friends, families, kids and a dogs all gather at The Shop.  A potluck is set up, a fire is started outside in the fire pit.  The kids and dogs run through the vineyards.  The adults drink wine and visit.  The band plays.  It is quite lovely.


Because my schedule is so screwy, I don't usually make it to practice.  The dogs have never been.  But the drummer of the band made a specific request that I bring the pug, so I got us all ready and we hit the road.  I took my BFF Deb with me and as I drove up, my Mom showed up with her dog.  Two of my co-workers were there with their kids.  One of them brought her Great Dane.  It looked like it was going to be a blast.


The Cocker Spaniel got so very excited to see her Daddy on stage, that she raced across the room and bounded up on stage.  I couldn't keep her off.  She had to be put on a leash.  When we would step outside the building, I would take her off the leash and the girls would race through the vineyards, sniffing around and enjoying the wide open space.  During one of the band breaks, just before the sun went down, one of the band wives came up to me and said, "Come with us, we are going to go see the piglets."  Ok!


Two weekends before, all the 4-H kids in Napa picked out their pigs.  They care for them through the spring and summer and then take them to the Napa Town and Country Fair at the end of the summer to show them and then auction them off. The piglets are so cute at that age, still relatively small and curious.  So I grabbed my mom and trodded off to the pig pen with about a dozen kids and all the dogs.


My mom's Jack Russell and my Cocker Spaniel just wanted to run.  They took a few sniffs and then it was back to the vineyards to race around.  But the pug was in love.  A pen filled with little beasts, around her size, with flat noses and making similar sounds!  I pretty sure in her brain she was saying, "I HAVE FOUND MY PEOPLE!"  She shoved her head completely through the opening in the fence and got snout to snout with a little black pig.  They snarfled, sniffed and snorted.  Both were wagging their curly tails.


I heard the band starting up again and turned to head back.  The Pug wouldn't budge.  She wanted to stay with the pigs.  I had to pick her up to get her out of the pig pen.  It was hysterical.  She whined (it almost sounded like a pig squeal) all the way back to the barn.  While we were talking about the Pugs reaction to the piglets, one of the kids came up and said, "Maybe it's because their names are so close?  It's just one vowel difference between a pig and a pug!"

In Memoriam: We Don't Look Anything Alike

One morning I stopped by my mom's house. We chatted for a little while and then she walked me out to the Mishamobile. Bonnie was at her usual post, right next to my mother's left leg. All of a sudden, Bonnie saw a cat and took off. She ran halfway down the block and disappeared in between two houses.

Of course, my mother became hysterical, shrieking and fretting. She was having a panic attack, in the middle of the street while still in her nightgown. I told her I would go fetch the dog. The last thing I needed was to bail Bonnie out of the pound only to have to go spring Joanie from the loony bin.

I found Bonnie sitting at the neighbors back gate staring down a stray cat. I called her name and she obediently came right to me. I told her she was naughty and that she better get back home immediately. She gave me an arrogant snort and galloped back to my mom's front porch. When I reached the foot of the driveway, I found my mom cooing and petting the wayward pooch.

I noticed when my mom's hand came away from Bonnie's head, it was bloody. Since my mom has a serious bleeding disorder, I became alarmed. I asked my mom where she was bleeding from and she looked down and hollered, "Oh my God! It's Bonnie's ear! She cut her ear! Oh no, her beautiful ear! Oh my God! What am I going to do! Oh no!"

I told my mom to call the vet and tell them I was on my way. I got Bonnie into my car and took off. Bonnie has huge ears. Ginormous, gray flapping ears. As I got on the freeway entrance, she shook her head, flapping those elephant ears of hers. Blood went flying everywhere, on the windshield, on the rear view mirror, on the windows, on the roof and all over me. I looked like I had just murdered someone.

When I pulled up to the vet's office, half of the office staff was out in front waiting for me. I figured my mom had made it seem like Bonnie was on death's door and they were out to give emergency aid in the parking lot. Until I noticed the look on their faces. They were all grinning.

I got Bonnie out of the jeep and said, "I guess you got the call we were coming in?" One of the vet techs replied, "Yes, Joan called and said Bonnie had cut her ear. We are all ready for her." I made some comment about my mom over exaggerating the extent of her injuries and the tech replied, "No, she said it was just a cut ear. But she said that Bonnie's SISTER was driving her to the office and we wanted to see a Weimaraner that drove a car!"

Too Tired To Blog

I spent all day with my mother again. Unfortunately, Barry the plumber was there most of the day too. He was his usual unpleasant self. As he watched me make a bank deposit online, he said, "Don't yer bank charge you extra to do that?" My reply was, "No Barry, the bank would prefer that it's customers do all of their banking online. In fact, given your charming demeanor, I think they would probably pay you to exclusively bank via computer."

Much like my friend, Bellesouth, I had to explain the ridiculousness of yesterday's events to my mother. She laughed at their moniker, but overall felt that their protest was a guise. "They're just pissed their guy lost."

Other than my shining moment of wit, bathing and dressing my mom and being her lady in waiting while she offered political commentary---all I did was take some pictures of her two dogs.

Lola, the Parson Russell Terrier and Bonnie, the Weimaraner.
Lola is very nosey. She likes to play with her toys.

She guards the front porch diligently. Bonnie is a handsome old lady. She is also very stuck up.


Have a great weekend everyone!

Dog Days Of Fontana.

We have always been a "Dog" family. As long as I can remember, almost everyone in my family has had at least one dog in their home. Much to the chagrin of my Grandpa, Chuck, the dogs were treated as family members. Grandpa would bring a dog home, tell us it was a hunting dog and we were to keep away from it. Well, as soon as he would leave the house. The dog came in and was spoiled.

My Nana, Ferne, my mom and her sister, Marian, and I could not resist. To this day I don't really understand the concept of an "outside" dog, I actually find it a little mean. Dogs are pack animals; they want to be with their pack, even if the other members are humans. The women in the family "ruined" a: German Shorthaired Pointer, an Irish Setter and a Springer Spaniel. Finally, Grandpa gave up and stopped bringing home hunting dogs.

My grandparent's house was without a dog for a few years. Around my 6th birthday, my uncle brought home a male Springer Spaniel. We named him "Tigger". He was from champion lineage, but as a result of irresponsible in breeding, he had problems. Bad ears that was prone to infections and too many "jowls". To add insult to injury, he was a little dimwitted. We loved him nonetheless and he was welcomed into "our" pack.

When Tigger was about 6 months old, my Aunt saw a man beating his dog. She started yelling at the man to stop. He was pissed because the dog had eaten his peppers in his garden. Aunt Marian said if he did not stop, she was going to report him. He said; "If you care so much about this dog, you take her!" She did. That is how we got our second Springer Spaniel, Daisy May.
Grandpa had not been thrilled with Tigger's arrival. When Daisy May showed up, he almost blew a gasket. He started bitching about how much money it would cost him to feed the dogs, the cost of the grooming, the cost of the vet bills, etc. He said he wasn't going to pay for any of it, "You three need to get a God-damned job to pay for those God-damned dogs. I am not gonna pay for a God-damned cent!" I knew he was all talk, but over the next few months, he kept repeating the same thing, over and over again.

Eventually, Nana had enough of his bellowing, so she told him; "Chuck, you be quiet. I am taking the dogs for a walk each night and while I am walking, I collect cans. I will pay for the dogs with the money I get for the cans." My Aunt Marian and I thought Grandpa would say he didn't want his wife walking around town collecting cans like a hobo, but he didn't. Both were stubborn and neither would give in.

So every night, after the 11 o'clock news, Nana would walk her dogs and collect cans. I would go with her most of the time. I would wear my roller skates and skate along side her. We would head out on Orange Avenue, cross Sierra Blvd, stop at City Hall so the dogs could swim in the fountain and I could practice my groovy roller disco moves on the smooth cement. Then turn on Palmetto, take it down to Arrow Blvd and maybe stop at the Post Office if we needed to mail some letters, then back onto Nuevo Avenue. We had a routine, unless the dogs needed a shorter or longer walk.
Nana was getting a bit obsessive with her can collecting. She would even go through garbage cans looking for cans. It was embarrassing. But neither Nana nor Grandpa would budge.

Until one morning...

My Aunt Marian woke up late for school, so Nana had to give her a ride. Marian was so late, that Nana had to drive her wearing her housecoat and slippers. On the way to FoHi, Nana saw a can in the middle of the road. Marian saw the look in Nana's eyes and said "Don't you dare! You will make me really late!" So Nana kept on going and dropped Marian off in the nick of time.

On the way home, she saw the can. Since she wasn't dressed, she didn't want to get out of the car. So she drove up slowly along side the can, opened her car door and leaned down to pick up the can. When she did this, her foot slipped off the gas pedal, the car started rolling forward, Nana fell out of the car and the car's back tires rolled over her right ankle before heading down Nuevo Avenue without her.

Luckily, Dr. Goldstein, our family doctor, was just coming to work. He saw Nana lying in the middle of the road and rescued her. A little later, Grandpa was coming home and he noticed a fuzzy pink slipper in the middle of the road. Then he noticed that Nana's car was on the side of the road. He went home to see what was going on...no one was home. Nana's coffee still sat at the kitchen table, the paper open. He was worried. Just then, the phone rang. It was the doctor, he told Grandpa that Nana was okay, and she had just sprained her ankle. Grandpa asked how, the doctor told him about the can. Then, Dr. Goldstein said; "You know Chuck, if money is tight, I know a few people who are looking to remodel. I could probably throw a few jobs your way."

Grandpa never gave Nana a hard time about the cost of dog ownership again.

What Did You Call Me?

We seem to have an issue with names in our family. I have about 4 or so names that I will answer to and Mr. Misha has at least 5. I am not talking about pet names, I am talking about names our family, friends, co-workers and acquaintances call us. We are not criminals. We do not have records. We are not in the witness protection program. It just happens that I have a very common first name, so I got a few nicknames. My husband on the other hand, he has a stage name, a Polish name, his legal name, his other stage name and his married name- Mr. Misha.

It gets even more ridiculous with our dogs. Both of our dogs are from rescue. We didn't get to choose their names, they came with them. Our Cocker Spaniel's name is Mimi and our Pug's name is Harley. They weren't names we would have chosen for them, so consequentially they have received a long list of alternative names while living with us.

If I list them in a evolutionary kind of way, one can see how the names developed.




Harley:
Pug
Puglet
Pugnacious Bean
Harley Bean Barley Corn
Butter Bean
Baby Headed Pug
The Dutches Of Snarfleshire
Adopted Chinese Baby from Szechwan Province
Dim Sum Dog
Ching Chong China Pug (not Politically Correct, I know)
Mrs. Swan
Crotchety Broad
Bolivian Fruit Bat
Gollum
Pug Roast




Mimi:
Meemers
Meems
Meemarino
Cocker
Cockie Spannel
Cocker Spannel Channel
Cocker Doodle Doo
Crockodile
Wigglebutt
Princess Wigglebutt of Cocker Doodle Doo
Velcro Cocker
Needy
Chenille Afghan Dog
Leggy Blond Supermodel Dog
Cocker Chops
Pin Nosed Cocker
Lamba
Jeebus Lamba
They seem to answer best to their actual names and their breed. The poor dogs are probably so confused.

This Is The Rant Part Of This Blog

Okay, first of all I lied. I know I said I wasn't going to bitch about the fans anymore, but HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!

I think Dick Cheney, John Wu, Alberto Gonzalez and all those other sick motherfuckers had it all wrong. Don't water-board people. If you really want to torture someone, do the following; force them to live under these conditions:

• TEN, I counted twice to make sure, TEN fucking fans and 3 damn dehumidifiers going 24 hours a day for 5 out 7 days this past week.

• A Cocker Spaniel that has developed a manic-neurosis of some sort from the constant exposure to the two things she hates most in life-----WET PAWS AND LOUD BLOWING/SUCKING MACHINES. If there was a canine wing of Napa State Hospital, I think she would meet the criteria for admission. She is at least good for a 48-hour hold; she is a danger to herself and others. Is there a doggie DSM-IV?

• A Pug who finds her schedule of burping, farting, licking and napping disrupted so she decides to ESCAPE every 40 minutes ALL DAY LONG.

• A small neighborhood consisting mostly of nasty, nosey, bitchy old ladies who love to nothing but tell you; your dog is out again, she has shit in their flower bed, she is going to get hit by a car, she is supposed to be on a leash, the workers let her out, you need to do something about it, that POD is taking up TWO visitor parking spaces, "Are those workmen bonded? Because you know one of them is, you know...colored?" (That one almost caused me to have an aneurysm), your garbage cans are outside of your fence, how long is this going to take?, why don't you put the dogs in a kennel?, yada yada yada, blah blah blah...

• A sweet, but lecherous neighbor who wants to touch your boobs all the time and is not shy about asking you if he can.

• An extremely fast packing team that boxes up your stuff tapes it and stacks it in the POD before you realize that you needed it. Stuff like: your keys, medicines, Visine-because you have no eyeball juice left and Carmex- because you have chapped lips because the dehumidifiers and the fans have sucked ALL OF THE MOISTURE OUT OF NAPA (except in your home), DOGTOWN-they packed it!, the clothes dryer with clothes in it, the vacuum, the garbage can, your toilet paper, your Tums, and your will to go on.

• Put two 40+-year-old men in a filthy man cave, they instantly turn into 12 year olds. You spend 4 hours listening to a loud conversation between Bevis, Butthead, Stan and Cartman.

After dealing with all of the above, I am ready to confess, TO ANYTHING. Seriously. If confessing means I get a hot meal, clean sheets, a bubble bath, some quiet and a few cocktails- WHERE DO YOU WANT ME TO SIGN?




All this bitching. I know, I know. I don't mean to sound so crabby. I am just tired and even though we got so much done today, there is so much left to do. The house needs to finish drying. The rest of the stuff needs to be moved out. Some cleaning needs to be done. Then the flooring needs to be put in. Then baseboards. Possibly new kitchen cupboards and perhaps some painting too. Then move all the stuff back in and unpack and put away all of the stuff.


I don't know what we would have done without such AWESOME landlords, the SPECTACULAR team from ServPro (Ray, Jason, Chris and Rosie- You Guys Rock!), Skater Dave (You are a brave man to tackle the man cave!) and Nephew Joseph (You are the hardest working teenager I have ever met!).

And thank you, dear readers, for letting me vent. Because frankly, I just don't have time for a therapy appointment right now and I don't have the cash for a spa day.

Happiness Is A Warm Puppy

I had to take my final, and much dreaded, computer class yesterday. I showed up with a big headache and a bad attitude. I was pleasantly surprised when I found this handsome young man dozing in my instructor’s office.


Meet Tanner.


Tanner is a puppy in training for the Canine Companions for Independence. A while back, one of my co-workers became a foster parent for CCI. She brought Brindy to work with her. It was always nice to come to work and see her sweet face. Later, Brindy became breeding female for CCI and started having puppies. Tanner is from one of her litters.


I am not sure how much longer Tanner will be coming to work, but it sure was a nice surprise! Nothing is better than an adorable puppy to lift the spirits.

For Barney, the only occupant of the Dubya White House I will defend.

When I finished nursing school, I made a list of things I had to get as soon as possible:

A reliable car
A house
A dog

I bought a Volkswagen Jetta. I bought a house in a sleepy little town about 20 minutes away from the hospital where I was learning how to help women birth their babies. The first two purchases were pretty easy decisions. When it came to getting a dog, it was difficult. Every dog in my family had been a rescue, a stray or a hand-me-down pooch.

I didn't know where to start, so I went to the pound. What a sad trip that was. The only dogs available for adoption at the time were pit bulls. My boyfriend at that time, Evil Steve, was ignorant (like many people are) and did not want a pit bull. No matter how much the volunteers tried to reassure him that they had temperment-tested all of the dogs before putting them up for adoption, he wouldn't budge, Pit bulls would attack and kill us.

I asked friends and co-workers for advice on what kind of dog to get. I worked with a bunch of English nurses and they all enthusiastically recommended the Parson Jack Russell Terrier. So I went to the library, because that is what you did before the Google, and read up on Jack Russells. They sounded wonderful. Energetic, funny, loyal and smart. I was hooked. I started looking for a breeder. I found a local breeder and picked out a cute little male that we named Cosmo.
Cosmo came home with me when he was 3 months old. I crate trained him, I took him to puppy school, I potty trained him. He was hysterical, not a day went by that Cosmo did not make me laugh.

Evil Steve did not find Cosmo as wonderful as I did. He didn't like the willfulness of our Terrier. He bullied him, yelled at him, and I suspect, when I wasn't around, he beat him. Cosmo became so afraid of him that when Evil Steve would come home, Cosmo would cower and pee on Steve's feet.

Not long after, I realized that Cosmo wasn't the only one being bullied and I kicked Evil Steve out of the house. But the damage was already done. Cosmo bit me. Tore my lip in half. Then he bit my mom. Then he bit my uncle. I took him to the vet for advice. We made sure there was nothing wrong with him medically. We put him on medication. It didn't work. I hired a dog trainer who was a little too "New Age" for me and told me that Cosmo was possessed. A priest came to my house when my grandmother died and my Godmother asked him to bless our dogs. The other dogs sat quietly as Father Tim sprinkled Holy Water on them. Cosmo jumped, snapped and snarled at the water as Father Tim blessed him. I gasped, remembering what the trainer had said. Father Tim just smiled and said in his Irish brogue, "I think that little one needs more than a sprinkle of Holy Water!" I couldn't imagine how one would find a dog exorcist.

So I took him to UC Davis, they had a Behavioral Medicine department at the Veterinary School. He was enrolled in a research trial. I followed their instructions, but he was still snapping and snarling. I tried for over a year, but I couldn't fix him. The Vet said I should put him to sleep. I couldn't do it. I called Jack Russell Rescue; they said to put him to sleep. I called UC Davis, they said to put him to sleep. So one afternoon, I took him to the vet and had him put down. It was the worst feeling in the world.

A few months later, I got Lola . She is the sweetest, most loving, docile, little Terrier that you will ever meet. This little dog pushed all the bad memories of Cosmo and my failure back. Then Cesar Milan came along. Each time I watch his show where he takes a biting, snarling dog and turns the pooch into a loving fur ball, I cry. If only I had known about The Dog Whisper. He might have been able to save him.

I still love Terriers. I love their intelligence. I love their humor. They are great little dogs, if you treat them kindly and show them respect. So don't fuck with them.

Comcast Sucks

While I was at the doctor, some dude from COMCAST CABLE came to our door and asked Mr. Misha if he could come into our backyard. Apparently, the box, or pole or whatever, for our entire street is located in our backyard. Mr. Misha said sure and secured the doggie door to keep the dogs in the house. When I came home, the COMCAST CABLE dude had left, so we opened the doggie door. I went to the bedroom to go on the myspaces and Mr. Misha went into the man cave. A few minutes later, I hear a man outside my bedroom window yelling "Harley!" I thought it was Mr. Misha. Then I hear it again. I holler to him, "Why are you yelling for the pug?" He hollers back, "What?" Then I hear the front door open. I go out to the front of the house and our neighbor is walking back to his house. He told me that both of the dogs were running around in front and he let them back into the house and closed our back gate. I thanked him and went back into the house.

I was LIVID. I got on the phone and I called COMCAST CABLE. I told the poor woman that answered, "I don't have comcast. I don't want comcast. I am very happy with my current company. I wanted to tell you that one of your workers came to our home today...blah, blah, blah...AND HE LEFT MY GATE OPEN. My dogs escaped and were running around out in front of our house! If anything would have happened to them, I don't know what I would have done! These dogs are our children. I would be inconsolable. No amount of money could ever compensate me for the loss of my dogs. Please inform your worker what he did. Please find away to fix my neighbor's cable without coming into my backyard. I have been letting your company come into my backyard for years. I have been awakened while sleeping during the day, even though I have a sign that says 'Daytime Sleeper, Do Not Disturb". This is the last straw. COMCAST CABLE will no longer be allowed into my backyard, ever!" Then I said thank you and hung up. Mr. Misha just smiled and went back into the man cave.