Monday, January 25, 2010
This columnist not writing about dogs
Ben Beagle
The aging, semi-hysterical retired reporter rides shotgun with the greatest station wagon driver of them all down the rocky road of life. Mondays in the paper's Extra section, steady as she goes.
Recent columns
Dear Max:
Some of the absolute hordes of my fans have brought to my attention the fact that there are hordes of writers out there who have gotten rich writing about their dogs.
They have sold to the movies, moved to huge homes in Pennsylvania, have private airplanes and two or three expensive cars and will never have to worry about their Social Security payments, pensions or the "doughnut hole" in their Medicare Part D drug insurance.
These dogs, of course, do the cutest things you can imagine. I'm waiting for a book in which a dog, ideally named Saint Salvadore, takes care of the dry cleaning and knows how to fix the water heater.
And orders stuff on the Internet.
Listen. This one dog I read about had a "toilet-tao." I don't know what that means, but I don't think it has anything to do with squeaky toys.
I don't write stuff like that, and I'd rather not discuss it any further, if you don't mind.
Boy. You were once dashing and destructive enough to inspire me to write a book, but that kind of died out after you ate my spectacles and my T-shirt that said "Lover Boy" on the front.
Oh, you did wrap your chain around the newly planted maple tree until the tree couldn't stand it any longer and slowly bled to death; but that's good enough for just a couple of sentences in your typical dog book.
No, Max, running around with squeaky toys and then dropping them sodden with boxer slime into your faithful owner's lap when he has just dozed off isn't what publishers are looking for these days.
All boxers do that. That's why so many of their owners are compulsive hand washers.
If you want to continue enjoying the Pedigree and Breath Busters, you've got to redo your act.
Forget about bringing the morning paper in because I have never been fond of slimy newspapers. Besides, this routine has been beaten to death and sent home to Mama.
Do something original. Why not do a difficult dance on your hind legs?
Or learn to bark out the answers to simple mathematical problems?
Or show what a good dog you are by not barking at the UPS man, the heating oil man, mistaking the sound of the washing machine for a heavy truck in the living room, and so forth.
But be careful. I'd hate to see you develop a "toilet-tao."
Respectfully Yours,
The Old Man
Ben Beagle's columns run every Monday in Extra.
