Dogblog

Dogs 389-393

noreply@blogger.com (Jon) — Fri, 01 Aug 2008 03:47:00 +0000

So you couldn't get into the Walgreens this time, either. Why beat yourself up over it like that? It's just a drugstore, dude. Do you honestly wonder why none of your fun friends ever call you anymore?

I don't know what it says about this breed of dog that I always expect them to be able to talk. It's the only realistic way they're going to get across what it is they expect from the rest of us lesser beings.

When you're in the kind of situation where you need to make a decision and a devil and an angel appear on your shoulder representing Good and Evil, this happy camper should appear in between both of them representing Enthusiasm. You still won't make the right choice, but you'll make it with energy to spare.

Look, sometimes you just have to take a god damn nap and you don't give a shitting fuck where your body ends up, you have had a long fucking shit balls day and everything that's not a damn hell ass horizontal surface needs to watch. The fuck. Out.

Why is it that all the dwarves and wizards and magical dudes in the movies always seem to have British accents? Am I the only one who's noticed this? We're not going to get any straight answers out of this elder thaumaturgist, either.

Dogs 384-388

noreply@blogger.com (Jon) — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 05:29:00 +0000

You can't get a dude like this to care too hard about it being wet outside. Not when he's already wearing his raincoat. If you hadn't pointed it out to him, he might not've even noticed.

Shut up, shut up! Not a word! Just sit here and don't make a god damn sound, because whatever this elected official is thinking about is approximately eight hundred fifty-seven thousand times more important than whatever bullshit you were about to say, and if you interrupt his concentration, we might wake up tomorrow in a world where potatoes are poison and babies are eating other babies just to make themselves giggle.

When you forget your ID, but your other pals have already gotten into the club and one of them has your car keys, you've got basically no choice but to make the best of it and try to create your own fun.

Listen, buddy, just because I never actually saw "Let That Be Your Last Battlefield" doesn't mean you get to make me feel fucking guilty about it, okay?

Probably one of the best things about owning a dog has to be that eternal fuzzy optimism. Honestly, who else is going to greet you like you're about to have the best day of your lives every single time you see them? Even for the richest man on Earth, that has got to be one short-ass list.

Dogs 379-383

noreply@blogger.com (Jon) — Fri, 30 May 2008 06:07:00 +0000

If you're a villain, this is what you see for just a split second after Rebis says "Release the Negative Spirit" and everything everywhere goes dark. Look, if you don't know who the Doom Patrol are, I'm not going to sit here explaining it to you; there's this thing called "culture" that we're all a part of.

"No, it's cool, guys, just ... just go on ahead! I'll catch up with you when you're done. With dinner. At Joss Whedon's house. With Natalie Portman. I'll ... I've got my iPod here, I'll just wait a few, uh, hours. Call me? When you're done? Guys?"

Taking a photo with the exact right background is important because -- wait a minute, what the fuck is that? Look at this dude's back feet! Somebody call the gene police, because someone has obviously been trying to make a goatdog, and that is not cool.

You can give a poodle his ball, a source of clean water, even a jaunty sport coat, and he's still going to project a field of hatred so strong that paint blisters from thirty feet away. Poodles don't like us! They don't. We should have given them their own island when they asked.

Why do you think every time there's a kung fu movie, the main character has to go learn the hidden secrets of his order's ancient style from a wizened old dude? They sure as hell don't live that long by accident.

Dogs 372-378

noreply@blogger.com (Jon) — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 05:16:00 +0000

Dog waits patiently
Ball eternally unthrown
Will you be the one?

I don't know if I'm getting any better at poetry.

I know you're not tall enough to be able to open it up and look inside for treats, but pretending it's not there doesn't mean the compost bin goes away, dude.

There's a school of thought that says magic can't be real, because otherwise we'd've done something awesome with it by now (portal to paradise dimension, creation of candy mountain, etc). But I wonder if the truth is that it's real, but all it's actually good for is occasionally bringing your shadow to life and having it take your naps for you, like some kind of Sleep Battery. Maybe that's why there are some motherfuckers who always seem to get more done in their day.

When it comes right down to it, the holidays are just a little bit rough on everyone. But when it gets to the point where you need a really stiff eggnog to just sit down by yourself and kind of stare off into the middle distance where nobody will bother you, you should probably consider doing something else entirely for that time of the year.

What I'm about to show you next is a before/after series for people who are considering entering the exciting world of software development.

BEFORE:

AFTER:

The choice, as always, is yours.

Every time I run into one of these "don't even need a leash" dogs, I wonder whether they feel superior to other, lesser dogs who need a piece of rope to know where they're supposed to be at all times. Does it even cross their minds?

Dogs 366-371

noreply@blogger.com (Jon) — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 04:41:00 +0000

Something I used to wonder about is why people even do this in the first place, tie their dog to a parking meter while they go inside a store or whatever; don't they worry about someone stealing their dog? I think I know why: sometimes, you can just tell that dude's tail isn't going to wag for you unless you're the guy that tied him up in the first place, and nobody, not even a would-be dog thief, wants to be exposed to such a wrist-slitting apocalypse of sadness.

There's a certain type of individual you will inevitably run across who listens very carefully to every conversation taking place around them, just waiting for the correct moment to open their mouth and begin saying their opinions. This correct moment never comes. Because it doesn't exist. But you will never be able to tell them that.

I know you have theories and ideas you want to share with me. I know this. But I am on a personal mission to try to convince the rest of America that we're not all hippies and Grateful-Dead-remembering acid casualties who think shampoo represents oppression here. You are not helping.

Do we understand, as a people, why short-haired breeds just won't ever be completely awesome? When I think about a dog, I picture a couple of shaggy dudes like this who I can run up to and ruffle, some real fuzzy guys who I'll never have to put a sweater on. You know what I'm saying?

Maybe this is just me, but that's not really a look I want to be waiting to greet me when I get done with whatever errand I was just running. I could be the only one, though. Who knows.

Buddy, we're trying to eat here; nobody wants to see your Cloverfield monster impression while there's food we want to keep down, OK?

Dogs 358-365

noreply@blogger.com (Jon) — Thu, 28 Feb 2008 05:07:00 +0000

I think we've all been here. You're just sitting there, minding your own, when all of a sudden it occurs to you how many other people on the planet are probably right this very second pooping, or opening a can of Coke, or saying the word "the," and that's when you realize that you are completely out of drugs.

Have you ever wanted to ask someone "Even if you got it, would you know what the hell to do with it?" confident that they didn't have a ready answer? I'm positive I'm not alone in this.

Of course reincarnation is for real. If anyone ever asks how you know this information, have them take a look at this champion right here. If that's not the face of a dude who has done good work in the past and needed a little break to just chill out and goof the fuck off, then nothing anywhere has ever been true for even a second.

You know that song by Rilo Kiley, "Hail to Whatever You Found in the Sunlight That Surrounds You"? Yeah, I'm not sure why it just started in my head, either. Weird.

Six or seven pictures of this guy I took, and this was the closest one to decent. One look at that parking meter pole probably explains it; I think he figured that if he quit moving, all life as we know it would stop instantaneously and every molecule in our bodies would explode at the speed of light. Ghostbusters was a documentary, you know. It's time you were told the truth.

There's something about going to a place where all the old regulars hail your arrival with enthusiasm and ask you earnestly how you're doing when you pull up to the bar. Those don't happen very often, so take the opportunity to soak in it when you can.

All I can think about is how for some reason it looks like you could just scoop the front guy up with one arm and just fling him over the nearest tree, and he'd just sort of float to the ground at about a quarter the speed you'd expect. The one behind him you'd need a forklift to move an inch. That's not a commentary on laziness so much as contrast.

I remember saying a while ago that the reason people want a dog is that at some point in their lives, they've wanted a stuffed animal to come to life and be their pal. I am now here to tell you that it is possible to take this too far. You know those people who collect dolls? Strange, creepy, perfect dolls with too-combed hair and clothes precisely crafted and aligned just so? That's weird, is all I'm saying.

Dogs 346-357

noreply@blogger.com (Jon) — Mon, 17 Dec 2007 06:31:00 +0000

It's one thing to know about the party and not be invited, but it's a whole other thing to not be invited and then have to tell people where the party's happening.

I'm not convinced this guy had a home, but not because he had no leash. He just doesn't look like he needs one. Look at that stance and then tell me you think a human's going to take better care of this superhero than he would himself.

If you don't have that good of a hand, you should just fold. It doesn't do you any good to hide your cards; we know what's going on, man.

What nobody tells you about time travel is that your past self might be so disgusted at what a fat slob you became that he might not even listen to what you have to say. And then you've wasted your trip! You should've stuck with your first idea and gone to see how they built the damn pyramids.

So you wanted to get the old high school gang back together for one more picture, except one of you went and had a little "operation" done overseas, and now the whole story's a little more complicated than you imagined. Sound familiar? No? It will. It will.

It turns out Wile E. Coyote learned how to disguise himself as a regular dog, and he's just laying low until he can get a catalog from some company other than those incompetent fuckers at Acme. He made me promise to destroy this picture, but I figure he's probably somewhere around Albuquerque by now and doesn't have internet access.

ShadowDog just wants you to know he's watching you no matter where you go, how safe you think you are, or how far you run. And when you cry out in the night, it is ShadowDog that you see.

"My dear boy, if you had only paused a moment to think about it, you would no doubt have realized that the earth's natural rotation timed against the annual migration cycle of the lesser-winged Dunharrow moth would have prevented the evil madman's diabolical scheme from coming to fruition until tonight at the stroke of nine! Quickly, untie this vile leash and let us away -- we haven't a moment to lose!"

Everybody's got that one buddy, the guy who's not even half as bright as you are, but the very thought of whom gets you chuckling to yourself until you can't help but get out your phone and see what the funny sonofabitch is up to this afternoon.

They might not be able to read yet, but they're learning.

Whoa. Whoa. Somebody needs to call Jim Henson's people and alert them to the fact that some of the bigger, dumber Muppets have come to life and are at large throughout the city. We'd better hope they saw this day coming.

When was the last time we had a movie with a real albino villain mastermind? Never? Is that in and of itself an albino villain mastermind plot?

Dogs 331-345

noreply@blogger.com (Jon) — Wed, 24 Oct 2007 02:41:00 +0000

One, it's bad to get caught on film talking to a fairy godmother that only you can see, but two, it's nine hundred times worse when your invisible friend starts talking some shit that makes even you look at her sideways.

It always seemed like a losing proposition to me to camouflage yourself in the colors of your surroundings and just wait for prey to stumble into your reach, but are you going to argue with that belly. I guess nature has things to teach us all.

What, is 40% off all children's fall clothing not good enough for you? Where else are you going to find savings like that, asstard? This is San Francisco.

I suppose every show needs to have a captive alien sage in it. You know what I mean? The being from another galaxy with the weird face that they keep chained up and periodically prod and poke for answers to whatever problem they're facing from episode to episode? Did you not watch the same version of Everybody Loves Raymond that I did?

I think I speak for all of us when I say that fashion consulting is best left to the experts, but I feel like I should have an opinion of some sort on such heavy eyeshadow next to so furious a pink. I ... I don't, though.

You can't break old habits. Even years after you retire as Brigadier General of the 342nd Snuggle Brigade of the Fluffywuffy Cuddlehugs Army, you still have to poke your head out into the air every morning and see what's what. It's what you're used to.

Something about this entire situation just screams "Do not feed after midnight" and I'm not entirely sure why.

What does it say about you if you're the kind of person who brings your own drinking vessel with you wherever you go? I haven't figured it out either.

Talk about a head that was specifically constructed for patting as you walk by. Dude's even in the exact right pose for it. I don't blame you if you just reached out at your monitor on sheer instinct.

We're lucky that as a whole, dogs just aren't a very ambitious species. If more of them were to learn hypnotism, for instance, we might find ourselves uuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhh wuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhh

I know there's a wiki version of the dictionary out there. How long would it last if I were to erase whatever definition it has for "poise" and just put this prime minister in there?

I guess one of the great things about being a dog, or just an animal in general, is being able to not give even half a shit what a wet sidewalk is going to do to your outfit.

Oh jeez. Let's back up to that wiki dictionary and see what's in there under "woe." Oh man.

RUMPELSTILTSKIN! There, I said it, fucker! I ... what are you still doing there.

Upon delivery, your ReadyPuppy™ Kit should contain one (1) puppy and one (1) charmingly worn-out tennis ball. Your ReadyPuppy™ Kit does not include the motivation to actually play "fetch," "go-get-it," or any other fetch-like game or game mechanic. Be advised that ReadyPuppy™ Industries takes no responsibility should failure to engage in fetch-like activities result from purchase of the ReadyPuppy™ Kit.

This month's update is double-sized because I forgot about September. Sorry about that, folks.

Dogs 326-330

noreply@blogger.com (Jon) — Wed, 29 Aug 2007 04:04:00 +0000

Is there such a thing as a dog hobo? I guess if there wasn't before, there is now. You and I are privileged to be living in days like these, where new things are being invented all around us.

The ancient Egyptians weren't smart enough to have come up with fixed-gear bikes [insert hipster joke ... here], but if they had been, they'd've at least had the sense to assign them a guardian god, one that probably came in animal form. Oh look, there he is. Isn't that convenient.

What's ... what's in that ... bag? Is this information that we need? That's necessary? Probably not, huh.

The reason why you don't hear about more daring bank heists being pulled off around the country is that it's just really super easy to look around and figure out who's planning them. Most of the time they just give up once they've been found out.

Dudebro, I know it really sucks to get a sunburn, but you're not thinking this through. You have fur. I think you'll be okay. Bro? Ahh, do what you want.

Dogs 321-325

noreply@blogger.com (Jon) — Fri, 20 Jul 2007 05:19:00 +0000

Fuck the Voight-Kampf test. If you're trying to find out whether someone's human or a soulless mandroid, you don't need to ask him some loopy-ass questions about a turtle meeting his mother or whatever. Just park him in front of this dude, and if he doesn't reach down and pat that fuzzy little head within three seconds, you can take out your gun and shoot it right through his metal head and just walk away.

Attention Science: Did dogs learn patience from us, or did we just kind of pick it up from them? Is there a way you can use your powers to learn this information? I ask for no particular reason.

"Criminals are a superstitious cowardly lot. I must become a terror. I must be black. Terrible. I must cloak myself in darkness and strike from the shadows. I am the night. I am -- has the sun been up all this time. Motherfucker."

You can keep barking all you want, pal, but nobody's going to listen to somebody who's got the Crazy Eyes. I'm willing to hear you out, don't get me wrong, but I sense I may be in the extreme minority here.

I don't care who you think you are or where you think you came from, everybody at some point in their life has wanted a dog. And I'm pretty sure I know the real reason. The real reason is: Everybody at some point in their life has wanted to have a stuffed animal come to life and be their pal. Tell me I'm wrong and I will laugh and laugh and laugh.

Dogs 313-320

noreply@blogger.com (Jon) — Sun, 17 Jun 2007 20:52:00 +0000

Listen, dude, I am sorry I am not a good enough photographer to know how to light your face properly, but isn't it your own fault for wearing something that takes attention away from it? Who's the real monster here, you or me?

Tip: When they finally put you away for that quadruple murder back in Baltimore you thought you pulled off so cleanly, at least try to get a hot cellmate. It'll help the time go by faster.

I know you already feel superior for owning a Mini in a city where parking is harder to come by than a wisecracking chartreuse unicorn in sunglasses, but to also make your dog finish your parking job for you so you can be sure to get a good table during the weekend brunch rush is just the height of arrogance.

What are you even looking at? Is somebody giving a class on how not to blend in even more with your surroundings? Just play with your toy, champ, you graduated a while ago. Go on, nobody's looking.

You're not going to buy one of those cheap used dishwashers, are you? You know those parts aren't guaranteed past five years, especially if they're made with inferior plastics. No, you need the Whirlpool GU2700 XTSQ with 36 targeted spray jets, Adaptive Wash cycles, sound insulation, adjustable rack height, and the all-new PowerScour™ system, and this guy right here is going to sell it to you. Watch your wallet.

I don't know either, man. Just try and relax and take a deep breath and think really hard about where you last saw your keys. There's no sense freaking out about it, you're just going to make everyone else upset too. Calm down.

What a security system. I know this doesn't look especially intimidating, but maybe that's the point. Like if you tried to make a move, all you'd hear is the sudden screeching of tires and a thump and then nothing. Forever.

Are ankle bracelets coming back? Were they ever gone? I don't know the first damn thing about fashion. Maybe that's why she's looking so smug, if that's even a she. If that's a he, then congratulations, because you and I must have both traveled in time to the future. Race you to the spaceport.

DOG MEETS ROBOT

noreply@blogger.com (Jon) — Fri, 01 Jun 2007 05:37:00 +0000

If you're reading this, chances are good you got here from LOL BOTS. How's it going!

The title of this blog's pretty self-explanatory, so here's the rundown on everything else:

I have:
- A "real" blog
- A collection of mildly hilarious postcards I made a while ago
- A MySpace (is it weird how fast that became a noun)

I don't have:
- Any sort of clever, one-of-a-kind merchandise (which puts me well behind esteemed colleagues R, Jeph, and Ryan, let me tell you)
- A lot of free time anymore

Dogs 301-312

noreply@blogger.com (Jon) — Thu, 24 May 2007 03:23:00 +0000

I come to you now, at the turning of the tide.

What we have here is the start of a turf war. It's not going to be as dramatic as the one I saw between -- and I am not kidding you -- two gangs of hilariously earnest teenagers in the parking lot of a KFC/Taco Bell in Daly City. Not even half as dramatic. Because these are dogs, and that means by definition they will never say something as dumb as "The war's not over, but this battle ain't even begun."

Nobody should be allowed to get this mopey in public. If the girl you like didn't ask you to the springtime Sadie Hawkins dance, you get all your friends who weren't invited either to come to your house and eat pizza and drink Code Red and play Guitar Hero until one of you loses consciousness. There's always college, guy.

This goes double for those of you who have graduated from college. If you're depressed because you haven't been on a date in two years, and your buddy takes you for a night out on the town, at least be friend enough to pick your head up off the bar and have some laughs, for fucksake.

Lastly, do not get so drunk that you end up saying the wrong thing to a guy who's missing some hair and has a short, muscular friend who gets ten kinds of mean on bourbon and beer. Because they do not have anything to do tomorrow, and they will wait for you out in the parking lot until the sun comes up if need be.

Please count for me how many things in this one single photo match, color-wise. If you said three, you are not correct: Guess what's in that cup? I didn't even have to look inside it. I just knew.

If this is what all the wampa look like before they grow to full size, it's no wonder they're mean enough to smack a dude right off his tauntaun and hang him upside down to let all the blood drain into his head (the tastiest part). If what I just said made no sense to you, that means you need to watch The Empire Strikes Back. Again.

You know how when you look at a certain guy or girl, you can automatically tell their name is "Kevin" or "Caitlin" or something? It turns out that also works with the name "Scout."

"'Scuse me. Ma'am? Ma'am? Fluffy Patrol. Fluffy Patrol. Please pull over to the -- ma'am? The Fluffy Patrol is an official government body that regulates -- ma'am? I know you can hear me, ma'am. If you'll pull over after you pass us, my partner will take your -- excuse me, ma'am"

When it comes right down to it, how many times have you actually seen a dog narrow his eyes in the sun? Maybe those idiotic photo calendars are right, and we need to put more of them in sunglasses than we previously estimated.

The thing about this little champion here is that his face is already the end result of what would happen if you loaded him into that thing and lit it up. It's like telling the punchline to a joke and then just walking away without saying anything else.

How many leashes or restraints or collars or whatever does it take to contain one black Lab? Should I be worried? Who for?

I think I finally understand the basic appeal of seals to us as a species: They remind us of a different animal that we like way more.

DOG 300 VALENTINE'S DAY SPECIAL

noreply@blogger.com (Jon) — Wed, 14 Feb 2007 04:29:00 +0000

Listen, sweetie, can we talk?

No, look, it's not that, it's just ... I just don't know if we're looking for the same thing here. Do you know what I mean? It's ... it's hard to put into words.

It's like there's this invisible barrier between me and you, some kind of unseen force that's keeping us apart in a way I can't really pin down. And I'm trying, but it's just so hard. So hard sometimes.

Well, I don't know, maybe it is all in my head. I mean I guess. Maybe I'm overthinking it. You know? It's been a rough week.

I'm sorry, baby. I don't know what came over me there. Let's forget about it and go back to watching the world pass by. Just you and me. That's it. Aww yeah.

* * *

Welcome to Dog Picture 300, people. And also happy Valentine's Day, for those of you who have somebody to celebrate it with. Those of you with a cute single lady friend in San Francisco: How about hooking a dude up? Humans only.

Dogs 295-299

noreply@blogger.com (Jon) — Wed, 24 Jan 2007 06:55:00 +0000

"It's just ... look, I'm not entirely convinced this thing won't just break loose somehow and run me the fuck over as soon as your back is turned. Just could you hurry up and go get your latte or whatever? It's making me nervous."

This guy's at least part Doberman, isn't he? Don't they use those as police dogs mostly? Why do they do that when they look like they'd make really excellent burglars? Or is that the perfect reason.

This little Ewok's just biding his time until he can get his hands on a rock or a sharp stick. After that, there's going to be a Situation.

Do you want some ice cream, little pal? I don't know why this is, but I feel like we owe you some ice cream. All of us.

He just acts like he doesn't care. After I snapped this picture and walked away, I bet he waited about ten minutes and then just took off down the sidewalk at blinding speed, dragging the bike rack with the bikes still attached, kicking up sparks, leaving behind him only a trail of smoke and howls.

Hi, everybody. Sorry I missed December; it was kind of a busy month. If you're reading this via the LJ feed or for that matter the RSS, there's a chance that something might hiccup and you'll get a bunch of past posts. I just migrated this over to the "new" Blogger and they appear to have a bug or two to sort out. I also need to answer some emails, it looks like (sorry I can't get them all, I am but one man). Stay good.

Dogs 287-294

noreply@blogger.com (Jon) — Sun, 26 Nov 2006 23:25:00 +0000

Note to videogame designers: Take this dude right here and slap him into your next military game, except about a hundred times bigger and with a turret on top. Call that a tank. I'm not going to say why, I just know it'll be a hit. You can trust me on this one.

Lie bot, what is the saddest thing?

The saddest thing is a dog contemplating whether or not Mos Def and Talib Kweli are going to appear onstage together and do any Black Star numbers, while failing entirely to realize that since he's a dog, ain't no one going to sell him a ticket.

It is not possible in nature to achieve the kind of poise you're witnessing here in a dog of this size. I think I stumbled onto a new product being tested by the Fancy Accessories Department of Bloomingdales: Collar by Fendi, dog by Monsanto.

I wonder if they knew what they were getting into when they named the breed the chocolate Labrador. I'm not saying this is a thought that lasts for more than .3 seconds, but during those initial .3 seconds after I first encounter one, I'm keenly interested in snapping their heads off to see if they're hollow or creme-filled.

Of course, we know what this chief is filled with, don't we. If "delight" were a thing that was distilled and sold in bottles at exorbitant prices, this guy would be saving all the money.

Did you used to watch those nature programs where they explained how some animals will puff themselves up in order to appear larger, to scare away predators? Did you know dogs could do that too? Did you also know that it made them exponentially less scary? I bet that last fact isn't something they'd want to get out in the open.

"We now return you to our ongoing presentation of Honcho and Blazynski, the story of a lovable dock-worker-turned-homicide-detective and his risk-taking partner from the wrong side of the tracks with a heart of gold and nothing to prove. Or was it 'something to prove.' Crap. You know what, at this point who cares. Please note that Blazynski isn't actually tied to anything, though. He keeps it street."

The sign says "NO TRESPASSING." What are you gonna do. Some folks just weren't meant to obey the law.

Dogs 280-286

noreply@blogger.com (Jon) — Thu, 26 Oct 2006 03:08:00 +0000

"You were going to sit here, huh. No, see, yeah -- about that. I've -- this isn't really free, this bench here. People are coming. People. As in more than one. You should just find someplace else to sit. That's my advice to you right now."

In direct contrast to Scowly McBeaglington up there, we've got ... this guy. Someone needs to manufacture a line of t-shirts or trucker caps for dogs that say JUST HAPPY TO BE HERE! Because that's what is required.

He did something with that skateboard. He went somewhere he wasn't supposed to. There are bars in this town you don't visit, girls you don't talk to, crowds you don't mingle with. And there are places you do not visit on your skateboard. He knows now. That look? He knows.

If you ever want to get within hailing distance of horror -- and I'm talking about real horror here, like what you might experience in your mind while watching someone you love get turned inside out by a monster from another dimension with claws for eyes and seven different kinds of halitosis -- just go have a talk with this dude right here. I think that particular brand of horror just signed a ten-year lease on the inside of his head and moved all its stuff in right away.

I'm not even sure I can technically include this picture, because I am 99.998% positive now that I took a picture of a cow that had been somehow miniaturized through the application of science.

This particular juxtaposition produced a kind of probability cloud of jokes that I couldn't find my way out of. It was like the dense fog that sometimes rolls into the SF Bay, but without the foghorn to let me know where land was. I am sorry about this.

This master and commander is completely ready to carry all the groceries. I'm pretty sure he thinks he'll just put them on his back and trot off at a brisk clip down the sidewalk, bags rustling serenely. I don't know that I'd want to be the one to break it to him that he's the size of a basketball.

Dogs 274-279

noreply@blogger.com (Jon) — Wed, 13 Sep 2006 04:56:00 +0000

The worry on his face. What's eatin' you, man? Is it that you can't drink the water because you're afraid bike grease got all up ins? Worrying's for chumps. You ... you don't want to be a chump, do you?

If you've ever wondered whether dogs are capable of experiencing the kind of deep, existential horror reserved for the last few paragraphs of a Lovecraft story, you can go ahead and lay that question to rest now. I bet after I took this picture, the whole dude was white from tail to tip.

"Yeah, how's it goin'. This? Leash. M'tied here. Don't mind. S'a nice day. What? Why's it all in knots? What, do I look like the Answer Dog to you? Get a damn job."

We've all had summers like this, haven't we, where one part just didn't get the right amount of sun for some reason, so at the very end we have to try and balance it out. Does it ever work? Ask this guy tomorrow.

I've got no words for this little professor here, just sittin' in the middle of the sidewalk waiting for the answers to come to him. I can respect the hell out of that.

Is Andrew Wyeth still alive? Has he ever done a painting called "The Insurmountable Obstacle"? Because I have an idea for him if he hasn't. I'm just talking here.

Dogs 268-273

noreply@blogger.com (Jon) — Thu, 10 Aug 2006 03:44:00 +0000

I actually got about half a dozen pictures of this guy, and I absolutely guarantee you that he had no idea I was even there. This is a dude with goals. Rawhide-related goals.

You saw that Simpsons episode with the motivational poster of the cat hanging from a tree branch saying "Hang in there, baby!" right? I'm not saying it should be done, but if you were going to try to make a poster out of this fella, the only possible caption would be "How did I get here."

Another one of those dogs with the sleek fur. Who does he think he's fooling? There's otter DNA in there, and I don't even need a genetic assay to prove it.

It's times like these that make me wish I were a folklorist, because I could tell you all about the story of the ancient Chinese sage who found a way to be reincarnated as a dog over and over again and to learn to talk with a dog's laryngeal structure, just so that every once in a while, when he's all alone with a human, he can say something that blows the guy's mind clean out through the back of his skull.

"That dude is going to be straight-up pissed when he comes back and finds his bike gone. If only I were an ancient Chinese sage, I'd be able to tell him which way the bastard went."

What is it with this dog and that face. Is this the same dudefella as dog 250? Oh man, little guy, are you ever gonna catch a break? Next time I'm going to have a rawhide bone for you; it'll at least take your mind off the crushing problems of the world. I hope.

Dogs 262-267

noreply@blogger.com (Jon) — Wed, 21 Jun 2006 05:02:00 +0000

The thing that makes this picture for me isn't just the flying ears on this captain, it's the bird I managed to catch in the opposite corner: "Nice try, dude. Nice try."

This little guy was fine with not being on a leash, but I don't think he grasped the concept of "people going inside stores." While I was trying to take his picture, he kept pacing back and forth over a twelve-foot stretch of cement and pausing. "Where'd they go. They were right here. They were right here. What the fuck just happened."

See what I mean.

"Uh, so, I was just. I was just wondering if you'd seen any, uh. I was going to -- I -- uh. Did you, uh. Hello? I ... I like your Zagat sign. I just, uh. That's all, I guess. Sor -- sorry to bother you."

I drove behind this car with these two absolute champions in the back for at least a mile, and not once did they ever look in separate directions.

This is what it looks like when you pull up alongside two of the best pals you'll ever see. You'll know because it'll make you want to climb into the back of the truck right then and there and hug 'em both at the same time around their necks and maybe rub their furry heads.

It's not often that you get to see a guy and his evil-parallel-universe counterpart right next each other, much less tied to the same thing. Which one's the evil one, though? You might be surprised. Or not.

Not exactly a coiled spring ready to strike. If this were a military movie, he'd be the one they call "Moose" who talks kind of slow and ends up carrying the wounded commander out of the fierce climactic battle on his back.

Dogs 256-261

noreply@blogger.com (Jon) — Wed, 17 May 2006 05:56:00 +0000

What. What. Why do I suddenly get the feeling that dogs might have invented detective shows where the cops question people two at a time?

There are times when I look at a picture I've taken after it comes off my camera and realize that what I own is a tiny device whose sole purpose is to capture the pure essence of absolute champions like this dude right here.

Man, who's the winner here? Green leash or purple leash? The one with the purple leash clearly doesn't think it's him, but that's just because he doesn't believe hard enough.

Two hundred fifty-nine dog photos and I think this is my first Weimaraner, if that's what this President of the United States of America here is. Look at him -- what in the damn hell else is he going to be, honestly.

It says something when a kind of dog gets bred to the extent that even their tails are wrinkly. What exactly that something is I have no idea, but I don't care as long as we keep ending up with these guys. Let's get him one of those old British pilot outfits with the hat and call it a day.

What's doubly sad about this is that not only is he tied to a USA Today box, it's empty. Someone else might make a crack about how it'd be empty even if there were papers in there, but I'm not that someone today.

A TEMPORARY SETBACK

noreply@blogger.com (Jon) — Fri, 07 Apr 2006 06:30:00 +0000

My camera no longer seems to recognize when it has a memory stick inside it; I suppose after four years of faithful service its time has come. Soon I'll have a new one, and some spare moments, and there will be more updates.

The world places demands on my time, is what I'm discovering -- my job, various social obligations, the search for that special lady -- but I will never abandon this thing as long as dogs continue to be amusing. Thanks for sticking this out.*

* Not that I imagine you all huddled in front of your computers night and day, growing increasingly haggard in the wait for an update, but I know what it is to wait for something new from a source of relatively consistent amusement.

Dogs 251-255 (+ Media Empire)

noreply@blogger.com (Jon) — Wed, 01 Mar 2006 05:34:00 +0000

"Get me out of here. Get me out of here. You don't understand, he's been talking and talking at me about Chomsky ever since we got here and I keep trying to tell him the guy's first name isn't Norm and it's not getting through GET ME OUT OF HERE NOW"

There are parts of town where you aren't allowed to park your Bernese mountain dog(?) unless the leash matches the thing you're tying it to. That's the damn law, and you aren't going to change it anytime soon.

Half of me wanted to rush over and hug this dude going "Awwwwwwww" in as comforting a manner as possible, and half of me just wanted to laugh and laugh at the staggering woe on his morose little furry face. I don't know what that says about me as a person.

Do you think that if dogs could build their own god, it would be a giant machine made out of bones and neverending bacon with an automated throwing arm for tennis balls and a paw-push dispenser for biscuits? It's not just me who has this idea, right?

Dogs can get jobs in the entertainment business doing more than pretending to play basketball and pull sleds, you know. Here we have one of those stand-up dog comedians doing his opossum impression.

* * *

About a month ago I taped a small segment for Current TV about this little blog of mine. They were extremely excellent people and I think I managed not to make a total fool of myself. You can probably catch it between shows on Current (it's on fancy digital cable), but in case you want to watch the beginnings of my unstoppable media empire right now, click on the picture below!

Dogs 248-250

noreply@blogger.com (Jon) — Tue, 17 Jan 2006 06:21:00 +0000

"You've got a little foam on your lip there. From the cappucino or whatever. It's right -- it's -- you should maybe use a napkin or something. I'm just sayin'. Are you going to finish that?"

All right, I know I was there and I took this picture, and this dude was a pretty big guy and all, but doesn't he just look like he weighs next to nothing for some reason? Like you would be able to just scoop him up between his two sets of legs and carry him for miles and miles? Maybe it's that candy-cane parking meter pole he's tied to, I don't know.

"If we don't find that contact lens, she's going to be pissed."

"Why are you checking there. I already checked over there, and it's not there. I don't even know why we're trying, we can't even see in color."

* * *

Happy belated new year, everybody! I hope this finds you well.

Dogs 243-247

noreply@blogger.com (Jon) — Fri, 02 Dec 2005 06:46:00 +0000

Check out this elder statesman right here, contemplating the next resolution on trade relations with Panama or something. I hope a lot of people patted him on the head as they walked by, because no one deserves it more.

Something I wish I had is a time machine. Because if I ever get a family together and we decide to buy a dog, I'm not getting one unless I'm absolutely certain it will grow up to be exactly like this. That's something I refuse to take chances on.

Dudefella's got his fetchin' stick, and his leashin' leash -- he just has to make sure his runnin' feet are clean. Or maybe there was just something tasty stuck to that one. I mean, when was the last time you saw a dog clean himself like a cat. I ask you.

Why is it that when I look at him, all I can think of is something out of Dickens or whatever? "Please suh, cood yew speh a doyme?" I can't render that old-timey London accent for crap, but you get the idea.

I think it's just a trick of the light combined with indeterminate fur coloring, but don't this guy's front legs look ridiculously long? Like if he actually got up, he'd look like one of those AT-AT landwalkers from Empire Strikes Back? Except without the lasers, obviously.

Sorry I missed the month of November, people!