I hate rainy days. Rain equals thunder and lightning most of the time, and I am deathly afraid of them. Plus, where's a guy supposed to relieve himself when it's raining out? I don't care for getting wet, so chances are good that my humans will have to wash the throw rug in the hallway later today. oops. My bad.
I think we should move to, like, Arizona, where it never rains. Ideal. The only thing is, I also hate sand and heat.
Fuck it. NJ is good enough for now, till we retire.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Hats Off, Thanks.
I nipped at someone today. Our neighbor's son came over and he had a baseball hat on. For the record, I do not like baseball hats at all. First off, they flatter no one. Secondly, a man who wore a baseball hat was real mean to me years ago when I was Rico. So, bottom line, baseball hats suck.
Anyway, I digress. This guy, a nice guy from all accounts, came over to chat with Mom. The hat threw me off and I momentarily lost my mind and nipped at his leg. It was a stupid move, I know that, but at the time, it seemed like the thing to do. Hindsight, however, is twenty-twenty. Plus, seriously, have you seen the size of my head? Small. So it stands to reason that my brain is pretty damn small too. Whatever. A guy is allowed to screw up now and then. It's not like I broke the skin or anything. I bit his jeans. No blood, no foul. Perspective, please.
The moral of this story is, don't wear a baseball hat in my house. It freaks me out. Plus, no matter how rakish you may think you look in a baseball hat, it's a dumb accessory. Even if it's a Phillies hat. Trust me on this.
Anyway, I digress. This guy, a nice guy from all accounts, came over to chat with Mom. The hat threw me off and I momentarily lost my mind and nipped at his leg. It was a stupid move, I know that, but at the time, it seemed like the thing to do. Hindsight, however, is twenty-twenty. Plus, seriously, have you seen the size of my head? Small. So it stands to reason that my brain is pretty damn small too. Whatever. A guy is allowed to screw up now and then. It's not like I broke the skin or anything. I bit his jeans. No blood, no foul. Perspective, please.
The moral of this story is, don't wear a baseball hat in my house. It freaks me out. Plus, no matter how rakish you may think you look in a baseball hat, it's a dumb accessory. Even if it's a Phillies hat. Trust me on this.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Training 101
My humans are great. For the most part. They are still not fully trained, no matter how much effort I put into it. Quite frankly, I don’t think they’re very smart. For example, I prefer my evening meal to be served at 5PM. Not 5:30, not 6PM after the news, not 5:15. I don’t understand what’s so hard about this. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to look at the clock and say, “Damn. It’s Mojo’s dinner time. Let me drop everything I am doing and prepare his meal.” Consequently, at around 4:55 I start to walk in circles near the kitchen. It’s annoying because my claws make a steady tapping sound on the hardwood floors. This is a calculated annoyance on my part. If that doesn’t work, I jump up on Mom and stare at her, licking my chops until she finally gets it.
And barking. Let’s boil this down and make it simple. I am a dog. Dogs bark. Therefore I bark. This is the way I’m made. What’s the big fucking deal? You talk, don’t you? You babble on and on about nonsensical bullshit all day long, so why can’t I bark at college students walking on the sidewalk in front of our house or at the mailman, who is always on his damn cell phone. Plus, it’s my job. I protect our house and our property. It’s what I do. Get used to it. You can put the citronella spray collar on me, you can yell at me, you can fill a soda can with coins and shake it whenever I bark. It ain’t gonna work, people. I was given a voice. I’m using it.
Let’s face it. I am a 9 pound Yorkie. My bladder is the size of a pea. I try my best to do “good boy” outside as often as possible, but when I am home alone for any length of time, chances are excellent that I will have to pee at some point during those twenty minutes. I don’t want to ruin the carpet or the floor. But when a guy has to pee, a guy has to pee. The solution would be to A) never leave me alone, or B) buy a hell of a lot of spot cleaner.
And barking. Let’s boil this down and make it simple. I am a dog. Dogs bark. Therefore I bark. This is the way I’m made. What’s the big fucking deal? You talk, don’t you? You babble on and on about nonsensical bullshit all day long, so why can’t I bark at college students walking on the sidewalk in front of our house or at the mailman, who is always on his damn cell phone. Plus, it’s my job. I protect our house and our property. It’s what I do. Get used to it. You can put the citronella spray collar on me, you can yell at me, you can fill a soda can with coins and shake it whenever I bark. It ain’t gonna work, people. I was given a voice. I’m using it.
Let’s face it. I am a 9 pound Yorkie. My bladder is the size of a pea. I try my best to do “good boy” outside as often as possible, but when I am home alone for any length of time, chances are excellent that I will have to pee at some point during those twenty minutes. I don’t want to ruin the carpet or the floor. But when a guy has to pee, a guy has to pee. The solution would be to A) never leave me alone, or B) buy a hell of a lot of spot cleaner.
Say My Name!
I am a man of many aliases. Depending on the current mood, I answer to Mr. Man, Lovie, Lambie, Manzies, and even a really weird name – Minooje. I have also been called pain in the ass, monster, animal, stupid ass, and dirty beast. But that was before I became a Black. Now I am Mojo, which means “magic charm.” It also means “personal magnetism,” which I believe is totally suitable for me. Seriously, look at me. I am a god.
I was adopted by my humans in September 2008, after I had been living on the streets for awhile. I was filthy, ragged and hungry and I was also scared shitless of everything. My name back then was Rico, but my humans changed it, and I’m glad they did. That name - Rico? It was never spoken like Mojo is spoken now, soft and easy and warm, like a fleece blanket that I can bury myself in when it’s cold out.
I was adopted by my humans in September 2008, after I had been living on the streets for awhile. I was filthy, ragged and hungry and I was also scared shitless of everything. My name back then was Rico, but my humans changed it, and I’m glad they did. That name - Rico? It was never spoken like Mojo is spoken now, soft and easy and warm, like a fleece blanket that I can bury myself in when it’s cold out.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)