Helloooo Newman: Bonding. James Bonding. I am happy to report there...

Helloooo Newman: Bonding. James Bonding.
I am happy to report there...: Bonding. James Bonding. I am happy to report there are some important signs that Newman and I are achieving a deeper bond. The kind of bo...

Bonding. James Bonding.

I am happy to report there are some important signs that Newman and I are achieving a deeper bond. The kind of bond I had with my previous dog and Seinfeld character, Cosmo.

When I'm at the cottage I try to put as little stress on the septic as I can. So, naturally, I pee outside on one of the 1,200 trees we have on the property. It's like having 1,200 urinals all to myself. If a male guest happens to be using a tree, I always pick the tree furthest away from him, as per the rules of males using urinals. I also alternate trees so that one doesn't feel picked on or left out.

Last weekend something very exciting happened. Newman came out with me and peed at the exact same time as I did. Just like Cosmo would do. I was so touched. Brought to tears. This kind of deep bonding really gives me goose bumples.

He picked the tree right beside me. I know, you're confused. I just stated the urinal location rules for males. You must pick the urinal (tree) furthest away. This rule does not apply to dogs or to fixed human males. No fixed humans have been to the cottage (not that there's anything wrong with fixed males). By fixed, I mean physically fixed only. Most male humans that have visited the cottage have been emotionally fixed. If they haven't been then they've been single their entire life.

The other sign occurred when I hadn't seen Newman for a while. Let's say I'm taking one of my countless naps during the day and I close the door so dog and daughter won't bother me. I've probably run out of Red Bull that day, the consumption of which can reduce my nap schedule significantly. I call them micro-naps. I've always wanted to run a micro brewery, but I should probably start a micro nap store. Or I could be out shopping at Holt's for a $1,200 pair of jeans with no knees. Takes me hours.

Up until now Newman would be very excited when he saw me and would jump up and down. Good enough. Makes me feel special. And let's face it, my wife never does that. But a key physical sign was missing - the drooping ears. This is crucial in a dog's reaction to a person. I look for this sign just as I looked for certain signs when I use to roam singles bars. Is the woman playing with her hair while talking to me? Is she actually talking to me? If she is, why is she 300 feet away? More important here, though, is the absence of signs. She's not spitting on me. She's not claiming that her dad is a navy seal and is looking for recruits just like me. She's not claiming to have open soars on her back and wondering if I've ever had them and did I date while they spread.

If you are a stranger to the dog, drooping ears can mean he/she is about to remove your scrotum with his incisors.

But for his/her owner, drooping ears has a completely different meaning. It means deep, deep love. Seriously, it does. Ask God, aka The Dog Whisperer. The look in Newman's face when he sees me and his ears droop has all the emotions expressed in the poem How Do I Love Thee? by Browning.

How do I love thee? Let me count my toys.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My tongue can reach, when feeling for chicken bones in the green bin

Newman now completes me.

Helloooo Newman: Weather or Not As I've mentioned before, the first...

Helloooo Newman: Weather or Not
As I've mentioned before, the first...: Weather or Not As I've mentioned before, the first thing to teach dogs is not obedience. It's about the weather. What it is and w...

Weather or Not

As I've mentioned before, the first thing to teach dogs is not obedience. It's about the weather. What it is and what it means to us humans.

It can be minus 35 or plus 35 and for Newman there is no difference. As far as I can tell he would probably prefer to go for a walk during a nuclear holocaust when there is lots to smell. So today it doesn't matter that my skin is sagging from the heat, there are two distinct, round wet spots under my arms, my hair looks like Tiny Tim's did and my pores are letting out this awful scream. In total I look like the momma from Throw Momma from the Train. Actually, save your strength, I'll throw myself off the train. For Newman it's business as usual. That sucks!

Weather is important in human affairs. That's why we devote an entire t.v. network to it. It's not enough to be told it will be sunny today. Sunny? How can I plan around that? Please tell me how sun spots, black holes and butterfly wings contribute to the weather.

Although I must confess I've been trying to get away from it as a topic of conversation. Especially when I first meet someone. Last winter I did some skiing and rather surprisingly became a chatty Kathy of sorts on the chairlift. I know, it shocked me too. No vodka, no red bull, just me and my Kathy voice. But I would purposely avoid the weather as a speaking topic, unless I ran into the person a few times. It's just such a cliche topic to open with. So it was fun trying to figure out what to say as an opener. I think my favourite was, "Have you ever had the shingles? Are they contagious? Should I be skiing?" I actually have had the shingles. They are about as pleasant as shingling someone's roof when it's plus 35.

Another good one…I would pretend my cell vibrated and would answer it. I would continue the deceit…it was a parent calling and Billy hasn't been practicing for his piano lesson. I would tell the parent the best thing to do is staple Billy's fingers to the piano and leave him there until he presses a note down. Wash the puncture wounds after 15 minutes and apply ointment. I'll be there regular time.

Once I know someone well I will talk a lot about the weather. Okay, I'll obsesses about it. I wish I could talk to Newman about the weather. I wish bad weather annoyed him as much as it annoys me.

I wish I could ride a chairlift today so I can tease some more humans. What would your opener be?

Helloooo Newman: Don't think…Feeeeel Bruce Lee, my hero in the 70s,...

Helloooo Newman: Don't think…Feeeeel
Bruce Lee, my hero in the 70s,...: Don't think…Feeeeel Bruce Lee, my hero in the 70s, had a great philosophical line. I think it came inbetween the line "I'll ...

Don't think…Feeeeel

Don't think…Feeeeel

Bruce Lee, my hero in the 70s, had a great philosophical line. I think it came inbetween the line "I'll chop your head in two" and him squealing like a stuck pig as he roundhouse kicked Chuck Norris.

When Bruce was teaching celebrities the martial arts, he would say "Don't think, feeeeel". Very simple idea but often very useful. I especially like the feeeeel. I think to express emotions accurately the word feel needs a few extra e's in it. We should whole heartedly feeeeel our emotions.

We don't want to follow this mantra all the time, of course. When I was a kid and put my tongue on a cold piece of metal, and then tore off shards of tongue, a little more thinking would have done nicely. Boy did I feeeeel pain.

This brings us to the age old question of whether dogs experience feelings or emotions. My short answer is, yes. My long answer is, yes.

To people who think only we wonderful humans are anointed with emotions, I say give yourself a roundhouse kick in the head.

Go ahead and tell me Newman feeeeels nothing when I get home and he comes to life like a muscle car zooming down Yonge Street. And what would that whimpering be when I leave for even 2 minutes?

I think the confusion comes down to language. We have it, Newman doesn't. But, as a Taoist might say, language is not the real world, it's only a description of it. The word "chair" is not the essence of a chair, it's just a name. (Feel free to smoke something strong at this point)

Let's see. I know. Labeling an emotion is not the emotion itself. Describing it with language is not the experience of the emotion. Put another way, I think you'd agree that a person who had no language could still feel emotion. If anything, language complicates and obfuscates emotions.

And language is a sign of what? Thinking. Thinking is obviously very useful but it also tends to separate us from our actual experience of being alive. If I say I feel sad, that is not the emotion. The emotion is inside me and ultimately beyond verbal description. Of course I'll try to describe it in a language, but the words are always an imperfect description of what is happening.

Oh, just remembered another way to say it. The map is not the terrain. When you look at a map, it is an approximation or representation of the actual terrain. So language is like the map. Emotion is the terrain.

Just because Newman can't verbalize doesn't mean he is not feeling. I would say his emotional experience is purer than ours in that it is not "contaminated", or modulated, with language.

Newman doesn't think about it. He feeeeels it. And we humans should do this more often. We don't always have to think and verbalize everything. Sometimes we can just experience it.

Good advice, I think.

Helloooo Newman: Dog or Dingo? It's fascinating how many different ...

Helloooo Newman: Dog or Dingo?
It's fascinating how many different ...: Dog or Dingo? It's fascinating how many different reactions I get to Newman (and me) when I walk him. Some people look at Newman an...

Dog or Dingo?

It's fascinating how many different reactions I get to Newman (and me) when I walk him.

Some people look at Newman and they don't see a 25 pound cutest-puppy-in-the-world chewing on a stick as he walks, they see the dingo that ate the baby. It's especially annoying when kids exhibit this fear with their lame parents around. The parents only enable the kid's fear. "Careful Billy, I was bitten in the nut sack when I was a kid and there's no telling this little puppy won't aim for the same region". What is this, African Lion Safari?

You ever notice how parents project their own fears onto their kids? What I'd like to do to people like this is bite them myself. Then Newman would pull me back and say, "Whoa, boy". Then hopefully they'll develop a life long fear of people, or maybe just people who play the piano, or people who work on a MAC, or people named Paul. Whatever it is, it will surely be irrational.

At least I can identify my irrational fears and then point out to my daughter that she doesn't necessarily have to model them. Like the time I saw a dock spider near our cottage. I kind of have a cold war mentality when it comes to these huge and ugly spiders. Go ahead and Google dock spider, you'll understand.

I'm the U.S. and the spider is Russia. If it gets too close, like, for instance, Cuba, I go on alert, ready to launch my missile, which is a can of raid. I only allow these spiders on our dock, which is a good 100 feet away. This spider, the size of a sewer lid, came near the cottage so I spent the day hunting him. Normally they are hard to catch because they move fast and every time I get near one I cry and run away like a little girl. Eventually I summoned the courage to corner him and had to go nuclear. Then the balance of terror was restored.

Some people smile at Newman, say hi, and completely ignore me at the other end of the leash. That really hurts. When I was single, women treated me like this at bars across Toronto, as well as in Europe, New York, Chicago, Mexico, and even Windsor. What does it take to get some attention? Can you not at least look at me or ask me some questions about my cute puppy? Hey lady, I'd like a little credit for picking the cutest puppy in the world, ya know.

At least these people respond. Some people walk right by, look straight ahead and don't even see the cuteness in front of them, and certainly don't notice Newman. I'm convinced these people have zombie roles in The Walking Dead. Obviously they take their work home with them.

By far the worst kind of person to run into is the evil-doer dog owner. These are people who have dogs but have learned none of the lessons animals can teach us about being healthy, emotionally in-touch humans. One time Newman caught a glimpse of a dog on the sidewalk and chased after him. Newman was 6 months old at the time so lots of things were new to him. As he playfully approached the dog, the lady owner turned around and hissed at him like some kind of damaged hyena. The thing that really startled me was she looked like a hyena, or maybe the dingo that ate the baby. This lady's aura would have caused any dog's gonads to tie their sack up and leave town. I could have saved on neutering Newman. She would make an excellent living fanning across the city and spaying/neutering animals with her personality. Her dog looked perplexed and I think maybe his eyes contained a hint of "please save me from this witch".

I'm not so egotistical that I would say dogs were put on this earth to make us better people. Certainly some people, like Joan Rivers, were put on this earth to annoy us. But I think we can become much more humane humans if we let dogs show us how.

I have yet to introduce Newman to Meryl Streep, who played the hysterical mom in the dingo movie A Cry in the Dark. Hopefully she doesn't take her work home with her.

PS: A Cry in the Dark is based on a true story. A court recently ruled that, in fact, it was a dingo that took the baby and the mom had nothing to do with it. The dingo's name was NOT Newman.

Helloooo Newman: Lend me your selective ears I wish I had the kind...

Helloooo Newman: Lend me your selective ears

I wish I had the kind...: Lend me your selective ears I wish I had the kind of selective hearing Newman has. I am male and married so I have, of course, developed...

Lend me your selective ears

I wish I had the kind of selective hearing Newman has.

I am male and married so I have, of course, developed a form of selective hearing that is quite handy. Actually, my survival depends on it. Have you heard of the "plastic" brain? That is the term scientists use now to denote that our brains are changeable, no matter how old we are. We can "rewire" them. Well, if I paid attention to the billion conflicting messages coming at me all the time, this plastic brain of mine would melt quicker than the wicked witch of the west. I asked the contractor-to-the-Gods Mike Holmes to rewire me but still some melting has occurred. This failure did not appear on his show. Figures.

So my selective hearing is crucial and is a great time saver too. When my wife gets home and asks how my day was, what I hear is, "Why does our lawn look like a Kansas wheat field, why is there toast and peanut butter underneath the bed sheet and when are you gonna grow up?" So I get to these things right away. Don't tell her, but the first two aren't really that hard to deal with. The third is a bitc…kinda hard.

Each day I'm never quite sure what the 3 tasks are that are firmly imbedded in the words "how was your day." That keeps my brain nimble and me out of the garage. So with selective hearing and a finely tuned married brain I keep myself in pretty good shape.

But I want Newman's selective hearing. Or I should say, some of his selective hearing. Some of his adaptive hearing is of no use to me. For example, if he hears a squeak somewhere in the room, he is all over it. After many months of attacking him with my hair trimmer he has learned that this sound means danger, or a bad haircut. I think he even knows the particular painful scream I let out when I get the vet bill. This selective hearing does me no good.

But he is a master at tuning out some sounds that I desperately wish I could ignore. The other day a Justin Bieber song came on the radio. I studied Newman carefully. Not a twitch. No convulsing or chest pains. No doggie vomit. No trembling or expelling or imploding - no lions and tigers and bears. I'd say he wasn't even aware that Justin Bieber was burning the wires of my radio like the acid blood from the Alien creature.

It was a sight to behold. He displayed none of the symptoms I experience when Bieber belches with his band. Newman has developed a selective hearing I can only imagine having.

Please help me to develop this kind of hearing. Please Newman, lend me your selective ears.


P.S. See if you can spot the 3 references to The Wizard of Oz.

Helloooo Newman: Constitutional Law The great thing about blogging ...

Helloooo Newman: Constitutional Law
The great thing about blogging ...: Constitutional Law The great thing about blogging is that I can do it while I'm sick at home. Today I am sick. And I know whose fau...

Helloooo Newman: A little learning is a dangerous thing Everyone th...

Helloooo Newman: A little learning is a dangerous thing
Everyone th...: A little learning is a dangerous thing Everyone thinks it's nice to have a smart dog. People always say cats are smarter and it would...

A little learning is a dangerous thing

Everyone thinks it's nice to have a smart dog. People always say cats are smarter and it would be nice if dogs were that smart too.

Let me quickly deal with the "cats are smarter" mantra. I presume people think cats are smarter because they resist all the silly "tricks" humans try to get dogs to do. Like chasing a ball. Ask a cat to chase a ball and the cat will "think" about it, and then might decide do it, or might lie under the sofa. The cat is smart because he can "decide" whether or not to participate in an activity that doesn't really benefit him much. He is not a prisoner to his base instincts. Because of this behaviour, people see cats as having an attitude, and you can't have an attitude without some kind of intelligence.

Well, bollocks! Let's apply this cat behaviour to humans and see if we would label it smart. When people have an attitude, especially children, we don't call them smart, we call them smart assess. Let's say we humans are participating in some activity that we really don't enjoy but must do because someone has asked us to (similar to asking a cat to chase a ball). What do we always say? Cheer up. Take a positive attitude and life will be more rewarding. We don't say, "There's Billy under the boardroom table again refusing to help with the monthly reports. I tell ya, that guy is getting smarter and smarter every day. I only wish I were that smart so I could lie on the rug, learn nothing and get fired". So it's not that Billy is too smart to work, it's that he'll be a welfare bum soon. The cat won't get the ball so, ergo, cats are welfare bums. Cats are very cute and I adore them. But bums they are.

This is why dogs and cats don't always get along. Dogs work for their room and board whereas cats might take the job, might not. You'll often see packs of dogs passing cats and yelling, "Get a job, ya bum. Chase a ball for cat's sake".

One more thing. Cats love to chase those laser lights. These devices shine a tiny, focussed light on the wall. Cats will do this all day. But think about it (cats don't). They are chasing a light that is physically unattainable. Slightly less unattainable than me becoming a Rhodes Scholar. Dogs at least get a slimy, gross, chewed up ball out of the deal.

Anywho, it is not good having a smart dog. That little extra knowledge they have can be very frustrating. When we visit people at the cottage and leave Newman behind, we have developed a brilliant system of coaxing him into the cottage with a cookie. He obviously doesn't want to be left behind (dogs are pack animals before anything else) so we use the cookie to entice him in. Well, now this smart dog has figured out our system so whenever we go in the cottage and hold a cookie in front of him, he darts in the opposite direction. Sure, that's cute and smart, but it's also highly annoying.

Now we have to up the ante to get him inside. We pulled out the peanut butter. I love my peanut butter and I don't love sharing it. Sure enough, it worked. But for how long? Soon we'll need a t-bone steak, some foie gras, candles, maybe a female poodle and some flavoured oils. Where will it end?

So I'm against dogs that have done a little too much learnin'. I don't want them dumb as a stump, like our guinea pig. She's awfully cute but has a brain the size of a kernel of corn at best. When you move the vacuum near her, which could end her life instantly and in a horrible fashion, she moves towards it, not away. She's got a bit of learnin' to do.

No, I want my dog just smart enough to take a job and be happy with it.

* My Title is from a poem by Alexander Pope.

Helloooo Newman: My Favourite Organ I would like to discuss my favo...

Helloooo Newman: My Favourite Organ
I would like to discuss my favo...: My Favourite Organ I would like to discuss my favourite organ. Oh, please people…the brain… the BRAIN. It makes sense that the brain is...

My Favourite Organ

I would like to discuss my favourite organ. Oh, please people…the brain… the BRAIN.

It makes sense that the brain is my favourite organ. It's my brain making that very decision. My brain thought of this sentence. In fact, this isn't Paul, it's his brain, um, me. So I'm my favourite organ. But you can continue to refer to as me as Paul, this aging vehicle that hopes to benefit from Toronto's upcoming Transportation taxes.

Did you ever stop to realize that when we humans study the brain, it's really the brain studying itself? It's doing all the work. This realization astounded me. We humans tend to separate ourselves from our brains. We're not our brains, we are these entities or personalities moving around in space. I am Paul, whatever that is. We separate ourselves from the world, too. So many people are concerned about how we humans are upsetting the plan of the universe. We take "x" action and that upsets the natural course of things. What if we and everything we do are part of the natural course? How can we not be? How can we answer this question? My brain, sorry, "I", hurt.

I know it's scary to think we are part of the plan. That means Snooki and the show Toddlers and Tiaras must be part of the plan too. Having these things in the world doesn't mean there's no plan. It just means the plan sucks fuel lines.

And I realize I'm ignoring the elephant in the room. The soul. We all do things that are good for the "soul". But come on, it's the brain telling "us" that the soul feels good now that we've had a latte enema, ingested pro-biotics, anti-biotics, and bought the new robotics. The brain could be lying to us, you know. To deflect responsibility from itself. Or ourselves.

No, it's all the brain. If it's not then why is the brain about 2% of the body's weight but consumes 20% of the body's energy to keep running. How big is the soul? How much energy does it use? Good luck with that one. You might as was well try to understand a hydro bill. A pole charge?

That brings a question to mind. What powers energy? Does it power itself? If so, then wouldn't it use itself up? Not according to the First Law of Thermodynamics. Energy can neither be created nor destroyed. It can only be transferred, like into a can of Red Bull. Does God power energy? What powers God? Maybe He too can neither be created nor destroyed. But energy needs to be powered, so who powers Him? Maybe God is energy. But if God is energy why don't churches supply energy? What would you rather have from God, a special apple or free power? Oh well.

I can tell it's all the brain because of the lengths people are going to nowadays to "improve" it. The latest trend I read about is do-it-yourself brain stimulation. It's not reading, or learning the piano, or having an interesting conversation. That's so prehuman. It is zapping the brain's cortex with a mild electric shock. Obviously the key word here is mild. It's just mild enough so that you don't end up drooling spit and riding the Queen streetcar carrying a ploughshare and threatening to annex the annex.

There is something to this. I saw a special on PBS about a man that was struck by lightning. After being struck, and with no prior musical knowledge or interest at all, he suddenly developed an urge to listen to piano music. He would sneak into his neighbour's backyard to listen to them play. Then he taught himself to play. Soon after he was composing and playing in public. That is incredible. What a transformation.

I also heard of another man that was struck by lightning, but he went a different route. He developed the urge (skill?) to masturbate on park benches. He couldn't resist. That's a problem. How do you know which skill you'll end up with if you zap your brain? What if you get a combo of the two skills? That would be audience-limiting.

But the real problem with this method is that if it's so easy, then everyone will be doing it. And if everyone does it then we're all the same again. No special advantage. We'll all be smarter and able to get things done faster but we'll just find other perplexing things to do and think about. Then we'll feel like we're in the same place we started.

Will we be happier? I'm not so sure. My feeling is that connecting to things outside of ourselves is more satisfying than obsessing about our own neuron connections. I could be wrong. It depends who you ask - my brain or my soul.

Helloooo Newman: Driven Where does the drive to do something come ...

Helloooo Newman: Driven

Where does the drive to do something come ...: Driven Where does the drive to do something come from? I suspect people, or dogs, who are really driven don't give that question much ...

Driven

Where does the drive to do something come from? I suspect people, or dogs, who are really driven don't give that question much thought. They're too busy driving.

I noticed in the last few weeks Newman is completely driven to do one activity - roll in the grass. I take him to Hodgson school to run around in the field and he loves it. But it's almost like he knows he has a limited time there so the first thing he does, for 15 minutes or so, is furiously roll in the grass. I throw a ball, he makes a lame effort to catch it, then back to the rolling. He really needs to roll.

The amazing thing about a drive like this is its purity. It's pure because it's just there and it happens. It's not about want, or aspiring to something, or choosing from a list of activities. It's a complete NEED to do one thing. Even though I have my drivers licence, I have no idea where a drive like this comes from. I just know you have to be alive to have it.

I also think there is no difference between the core drive of Newman to roll in the grass and, say, Michelangelo to paint the Sistine Chapel. There's no question in my mind that Mich (to his friends) was overcome with an inexplicable drive to complete that great work, no matter how hard it became. I know it seems like a stretch, but in its essence I think the drive to roll and paint are the same.

What differs, of course, is the content and results of the drive. When Newman rolls in the grass, let's face it, it doesn't contribute much to the world, cute as it is. When Mich paints the Sistine Chapel, it gives the world a beautiful room utterly packed with noisy, smelly tourists, and if you have to pee while you're in there, you'll probably do what Newman would do in that situation. When I was in the chapel I knew exactly how a fig newton feels 24/7, sandwiched in his package waiting patiently to be purchased and freed. I'd much rather be a Joe Louis, all alone in my own bachelor packaging, great view of the other shelves, and cream filling too.

Dog drives don't vary nearly as much as human drives. It's astounding the number of different human drives and how they express themselves. George Carlin once used the dichotomy of napalm and silly putty to illustrate how mankind can be so harmful and yet benign at the same time.

To expand on that dichotomy, consider the drives of Albert Schweitzer and, for example, Jeffrey Dahmer, the cannibalistic killer. Al was driven to improve the human condition whereas Jeffrey ignored the condition and ate the human. There's a bit of a contrast there, I think. And, not surprising to some, I am much more curious about Dahmer's drive.

Jeffie (to his victims) was the serial killer in the 80s who lured, drugged, raped, killed, dismembered, stored and ate his victims. What a long day for one person.

I certainly can't relate to the actual drive. My friends and family will be glad to read that. I once ate at McDonalds in Moscow and it was unreservedly vile. If an appendix tastes anything like that, I'm out. What is it about communist cows? I guess there weren't any good recipes in The Communist Manifesto.

I'm interested in the day-to-day Dahmer. What recipe books did he have? How did he handle the mundane challenges of storing food? Did he like the economy of tupperware or was he a ziplock bag kind of guy? Let's say, for example, he had a slow day luring dinner, he gets home and he finds he's not that hungry. He can really only eat one spleen that night, with a small leek salad and a kidney juice reduction. Did he freeze all the spleens together in one bag? When I do that with chicken the results are disastrous. Little shards of chicken everywhere and puncture holes in the skin between my thumb and index finger.

Maybe he used the Baby Bullet. That's the product advertised on t.v. with which you can mix your own internal organs, but usually baby food, and stick in the freezer. It has a dial on it to tell you the day and month you froze that organ, or baby food. I presume even pancreas puree can get freezer burn.

Anywho, I'm not much closer to penetrating the core of people and dogs that are driven. But it's clear that the consequences of what drives you can differ greatly. Schweitzer is celebrated, Dahmer was beaten to death in prison. Drive carefully.

Helloooo Newman: Dog Like Me I was thinking of dressing up like a d...

Helloooo Newman: Dog Like Me
I was thinking of dressing up like a d...: Dog Like Me I was thinking of dressing up like a dog to see how people would really treat me if I were a dog. Like the book Black Like Me...

Dog Like Me

I was thinking of dressing up like a dog to see how people would really treat me if I were a dog. Like the book Black Like Me, published in 1961, about a caucasian reporter who made himself look black to see how he would be treated. I do not, of course, intend to compare my silly blog with this serious work of nonfiction. My blog is worth the paper it's written on.

I quickly nixed the idea. Many reasons. The outfit would be constraining and hot. I'm not fixed. There aren't too many parts of my body I can lick. I don't really want to go around smelling butts or poo to make the illusion real.

For a time I thought I'd dress up like God, instead of Dog, and see how people treat me. Then I realized this has been tried already by Donald Trump.

But I now have an appreciation for some of the things Newman lives with everyday. In many posts I have arrogantly made fun of him for being afraid of the vacuum, pylons, snowmen, Revenue Canada. All but the last one are completely irrational fears.

So I think, as I'm sure all of you do to, that I am superior because a vacuum doesn't scare me, even when I don't know how to use one.

Well, I am wrong. Today, in my shower, I was greeted by a millipede. She was resting quietly, having just looked for a mate I suppose, until I rudely threw open the shower curtain. She responded in a completely rational manner. She ran for her life.

I, however, responded like a weak, cowardly, or ineffectual person, which is the dictionary definition of wuss. I reacted with such fear that my heart punched a small hole in my chest, squeezed out and booked time at the Kind Edward hotel spa to settle down.

Why am I afraid? She has no teeth, she's much smaller than me, and I don't think she's looking for money because I fathered children with her. In fact, she is kind of beautiful. When she scurries away for her life, her legs move in this undulating kind of way. Most things in nature that undulate are beautiful, save for people like Howard Stern or Getty Lee.

A website I checked said the SAFEST way to get rid of these undulating creatures is to step on them or vacuum them up. I can't vacuum her because then Newman acts like a wuss. Then you have wussi, I suppose. I was going to rent time on a CIA satellite, track her movements, build a life-like model of her home, practice dropping down on her in complete stealth, and then I guess break several hundred of her legs so she can't get away. But I chose the safe way. Whew!

Why are we humans so afraid of these things? Still thinking…

Helloooo Newman: Queue Fun You know where I have lots of fun? Linin...

Helloooo Newman: Queue Fun
You know where I have lots of fun? Linin...: Queue Fun You know where I have lots of fun? Lining up at the grocery store. The fun is all in my head, of course. Many fun things are al...

Queue Fun

You know where I have lots of fun? Lining up at the grocery store. The fun is all in my head, of course. Many fun things are all in my head. That's a little concerning, I admit.

I always try to figure out what the person in front of me is like. Their personality, values, political leanings, how they think. And you can glean a lot more information than you would think. That is if you pay attention to mundane things like this and are willing to stereotype, jump to conclusions, stretch credulity, walk a fine line between truth and fiction and completely get the person wrong. The great thing is I never know if I'm right or wrong. Who cares? I'm not their shrink.

One day I had this lady in front of me. She was buying a pound of fatty bacon and hidden underneath it was a container of hydroponic lettuce. It wasn't until she moved the items to pay for them that I saw the glaring food dichotomy. My mind went crazy.

She was super thin skinny boney and was wearing kind of raggy type clothes. Obviously she was a tree-hugging health nut who didn't have a job and usually ate birch bark sandwiches.

But then why these two items? And such polar food opposites? It wasn't just ordinary lettuce. She went out of her way to pay more for lettuce grown in water. Is this kind of lettuce healthier than normal lettuce? Doesn't lettuce grown in soil also get water? Questions for another day, I guess.

The bacon wasn't even salt reduced. It was the normal fatty, artery-destroying kind. What kind of a mind would consume such completely opposite foods? What's the rationale? Let me guess. She was making yin yang salad?

After much careful thought for about 3 seconds, I decided that she came in from her home in the forest to attend a dinner in the big city. It was with her parents, who she needed money from. She wanted to make a healthy salad but knew she had to include a city-type food that would appeal to her obese dad.

I bet you she was also hoping the really clean, healthy salad would counter balance the death-laden bacon. But is this how the body really works? Picture this…

We are now in the stomach with Chompsky, the General Manager of food intake. "Okay, everybody, we have some…yes, some bacon coming in. Tumus, get on the blower to cholesterol and let them know some bacon is on its way". "Chompsky", Tumus said, "we email all those notices now". "Whatever, just let them know. Wait a minute, hold that email. I think we have…yes, I think it's…yup, salad coming down. If I have to guess I'd say hydroponic. Hold off on cholesterol, let's contact the brain and recalculate. Let's see - 8 oz of hydroponic salad and 3 oz of bacon. The brain says to subtract her age, add her weight and divide by her I.Q. Okay, now we take the square root of her waist size plus…wait a sec, cue the eyes, what kind of car does she drive? What? No car? She lives in the woods? Oh good Lord, we have to recalculate everything now".

I've never heard this going on in my stomach. I guess we all fool ourselves sometimes. Tonight I ate 10 extra yellow beans to counter the beer and brownie I am eating. See, even I eat contradictions. Maybe the whole universe is based on contradictions. Life/death, good/evil, Boss suits/socks with sandals. I guess those contradictions keeps life interesting. Come to think of it, have you ever met anyone without contradictions? They are probably boring.

N.B. The above story actually did happen. I don't make these fascinating stories up out of thin cyberspace. Nothing but 100% Canada AAA truth on this site. No additives, cereals or bull poop of any kind.

Working in That Happy Place

Most of us lead desperate, miserable lives working for the man. And let's not forget, the woman too (you fought for it, ladies).

But there are some jobs where it is impossible not to be happy. Here are two of those jobs.

PetSmart:
I've never seen a single depressed worker at PetSmart. In fact, they are almost always smiling, even at a steaming pile of poo. And no one, worker or customer, has ever been mean or curt to me at PetSmart.

This is true for anyone who works around animals, I think. My vet is the happiest guy I have ever met. Always chatting and smiling, even after removing animal genitalia. Imagine how happy he'll be when it's time for The Long Island Medium to contact him (not anytime soon, I hope). Of course, his fees are also something for him to be very excited about. The fixing of Newman is not just painful for him, you know.

Back to PetSmart. Can you imagine this conversation ever taking place? "Oh man, Jerry, what a crappy day today. This incredibly cute puppy licked me on the face and snuggled in my chin, got me all wet. Then he peed on the floor and everyone was laughing and smiling. Even my boss. Then I had to break it to a few customers that we were fresh out of the truck sized cookies, Polo dog t-shirts, the giraffe costume for dogs, the smurf rhinestone bows for poodles, and we only had the jumper for puppies in puke yellow. Those rude customers just smiled, thanked me and said they'd be back another time. I just can't go back there, Jerry (tears)". Won't happen!

Cobs Bread: There is something about the smell of freshly baked bread that puts everyone in a good mood. Again, everyone who works at this store is smiling. This olfactory heaven sure beats regular factory work. It can't be the money they are making. These are little kids working there, and they ain't getting much dough, so to speak. I understand why all the blonde, sculpted and tanned mom customers are happy. There's lots of room in their Escalade to stuff children, expensive kids furniture from Scholar's Choice, a latte that takes two minutes to order, and a loaf or two. I once saw a blonde woman there who was pregnant - she looked like a snake that had just eaten a bowling ball - thin, thin, thin, thin, bulge, thin thin, thin. Must be feeding the fetus croutons. No body fat to chew on, that's for sure.

Smell is the oldest and one of the most important senses that humans have. That's too bad, because I'm the one that gets all the dog poop from the backyard. Lately I've been inserting bread pieces from Cobs in my nose while I scour the backyard for dog feces. I'm sure as I continue this habit I'll remember to remove them when I go to meetings.

Try cleaning dog poop from the backyard at the end of winter. It's like an excavation site. Oh, this poop froze on January 11th, that why it's lower in the ice than this poop, which froze on Feb. 10th. It froze first. It's very educational and fun. Global warming will ruin all this fun.

I think I'll follow this up with places where people should be very happy, but aren't always. The LCBO (under worked and over paid), the Post Office (very under worked and very over paid) and any store that sells adult sex toys (very under paid but very over sexed).

Helloooo Newman: Constitutional Law The great thing about blogging ...

Helloooo Newman: Constitutional Law
The great thing about blogging ...: Constitutional Law The great thing about blogging is that I can do it while I'm sick at home. Today I am sick. And I know who's...

Constitutional Law

The great thing about blogging is that I can do it while I'm sick at home.

Today I am sick. And I know whose fault it is. Well, I don't know the individual, but I know the group that is responsible. It's all those little kids I'm exposed to. They are like little germ butterflies, floating around and depositing deadly germs on me. Maybe they are flies, instead. Ya, that's a better image. Because Lord knows I want to swat them, if it weren't for all those responsible adults around them.

I get sick too often. I wish I were like my better half, who actually works harder when she gets sick. What a solid constitution. Written properly the first time and no need for changes.

My constitution is full of amendments. Like the second amendment - the right to bear sore arms. Last weekend at the cottage I went to get a tool from my neighbour's truck. It's this huge pickup truck the size of one of those Easter Island heads. I tried to open the door on the very back, you know, the pickup part of the truck. The handle is the size of my arm. I tried and tried, failed, but successfully hurt my arm and wrist. I nursed my cold, dead hand.

Freedom of assembly is a terrible right for me. That's what gets me sick in the first place. I need a fourth amendment, which prohibits unreasonable searches, seizures, colds, sore throats, aches and pains, and general weakness.

Or at least give me the sixth amendment, the right to a speedy recovery instead of a trial by fire. When I get sick, the germs move around my body like a sloth on a tree branch. I'm not that tall. What takes so long?

I just passed the thirteenth amendment for my constitution - it abolishes involuntary servitude to these germs. But the germs are holding a protest in my nose and now it goes to the supreme court -  the medicine cabinet. The aspirin is republican, the nyquil is democrat. Could go either way. Maybe a precedent will be set.

Helloooo Newman: I learned an important lesson from Newman last nig...

Helloooo Newman: I learned an important lesson from Newman last nig...: I learned an important lesson from Newman last night. I should say relearned it, because I knew it before, and before that, and before that,...

Helloooo Newman: I learned an important lesson from Newman last nig...

Helloooo Newman: I learned an important lesson from Newman last nig...: I learned an important lesson from Newman last night. I should say relearned it, because I knew it before, and before that, and before that,...

Helloooo Newman: Long Island Medium Pizza with Extra Happiness on i...

Helloooo Newman: Long Island Medium Pizza with Extra Happiness on i...: Long Island Medium Pizza with Extra Happiness on it Occasionally I will stray from the dog theme when the world urgently needs my perspect...

Long Island Medium Pizza with Extra Happiness on it

Occasionally I will stray from the dog theme when the world urgently needs my perspective.

Some people I know (names are protected under deep throat status) watch that show The Long Island Medium (The LIM from now on). It features this lady who wanders around malls and neighbourhoods contacting the dead for the living, to make a living. I don't know how to describe her, other than I think her head would make a great halloween mask.

I'm not sure about the ability to contact the dead. Could be possible. I've certainly been to some parties where it felt like I was conversing with a dead person. Occasionally in the mirror too. What I am completely unable to accept is that every dead person she contacts is profoundly happy.

Like the guy who saved his kid when their kayak flipped over, only to have himself drown. Happy he is. He's in the sadness-free zone, folks. No depression here. When The LIM was speaking to him, not a word of regret that he and his kid weren't wearing life jackets. No apology to the family. He says I am happy and you (his wife) should quit your sobbing and be happy too. I'd be slapping myself upside the spirit head, racked with guilt, looking for a job in heaven so I could send some money back. I'd certainly expect my wife to be screaming at me like a banshee.

So he screws up and gets to be happy, while the wife is tearing away and leading an empty existence. It's unfair when other people win the lottery and I don't, but this is a whole new level of unfairness. And what do our children learn from this? Yes, if you're smart you too have to wait some 80-odd years before you achieve real happiness.

I can see why he might be somewhat satisfied. There are no lineups for him, no weight lose programs, and no roaming charges when The LIM calls. But to be constantly surrounded by millions of other really happy souls, always positive, no complaining. I want to slap souls like that.

These dead people could also realize they are on t.v and be performing for the cameras. Their 15 minutes, so to speak. But what's in it for them? You can't see them, and it's not their voice you hear, but The LIM's. Would you want your voice attached to next year's halloween mask?

The only earthly equivalent of this happy-to-be-dead thing I can think of is North Korea, where all the official videos show extremely happy people cheering their Dear Leader. Starring in these videos is much better than starving in the street. Maybe the dead people are being threatened if they don't feign happiness. But threatened with what? They're already dead. I know. To be sent back to earth. Does God go around uttering life threats?

The main message this guy had for his wife was he wanted her to believe again. Believe what? That there's still time to meet a much smarter guy? A guy who will put away a little each month for life jackets?

So if The LIM really is talking to the dead, then the dead are pretty insensitive. Cheer up, they say, your time for happiness will come too. Ya, well why don't you pay the mortgage, dead dude? Change a dirty diaper or two.

If you thought you loved your medium pizza now with everything on it, wait til you get extra happiness on it. And you might get to be on t.v. with The LIM.

Helloooo Newman: Turtle on the Highway There is a great Canadian ph...

Helloooo Newman: Turtle on the Highway
There is a great Canadian ph...: Turtle on the Highway There is a great Canadian philosopher who said, "life is a highway". This replaces my previous favourite ...

Turtle on the Highway

There is a great Canadian philosopher who said, "life is a highway". This replaces my previous favourite insight, "everybody's workin' for the weekend".

This apt metaphor came to mind as we drove home from the cottage and narrowly missed flattening a turtle. I looked over at Newman and suddenly realized the "safety gap" between our lives. Life for us humans is like that turtle on the highway. For Newman it's like a fully paid spa visit every day.

The biggest threat facing Newman on a daily basis is probably the toilet seat falling on his head. Sure, he's eaten and/or chewed chicken bones, sewing needles, door stoppers, furniture, shoelaces (just the aglets, actually) staples, paper clips, kleenex and toilet paper. But his titanium-lined stomach doesn't seem to complain much. Occasionally it puts up a fuss. One can push a stomach too far, you know. "What the hell are WE eating now", it asks. In disgust, the stomach ejects it, along with a little instruction booklet on what's allowed. Newman re-eats the offending item along with the booklet, sending a message to his stomach to be quiet or he'll eat it too.

I protect him from all the other dangers out there - cars, mean dogs, mean people, raccoons, vacuum cleaners, pylons, snowmen, my hair trimmer that I chase him with, and the Buckley's cough syrup that I present to him as food to watch his nose crinkle up at the vapo-rub smell. I mean, come on, Newman is really living la dolce vita.

For us humans, like the turtle, it's a slow crawl along a highway, mostly quiet, and punctured with impending doom, usually around rush hour. Take this weekend. A great friend was helping me set some concrete posts for our sleeping cabin. He has helped us so many times and we owe him in this lifetime and into the next two or three. So he asks me to take a huge drill (I thought it drilled oil wells) and drill some holes into the rock. This powerful drill chews through rock like a hot knife through something frozen hard. Its torque value is obscene. As I was drilling, and successfully too, the drill bit stopped spinning and the drill handle, along with my arm, started spinning. As I calmly assessed what was happening, I kept holding on to the power button. My arm looked like a phone chord and it was dialing 911 for pain medication. This is when my friend decided to tell me he's seen several people's hands almost come off using this drill. Be careful. Now my arm looks like a Popeye arm after ingesting a few cans of spinach.

It wasn't my friends fault. This is just another day on the highway. Danger zips by…quiet. Like the poor turtle. I'm sleeping in a freezer tonight to bring down the swelling so I can play Down by the Bay at the school. The children will probably call me Mrs. Popeye Arm, and I might even get a tattoo of an anchor on it.

So be careful on the highway of life, especially during rush hour. And whatever you do, watch out for turtles.