Oh, man. The best day yet. I’m walking up the driveway with Mommy and Nigel, and I hear this beep beep beep. It’s Rich, the guy who brings the bath to us! He calls it Bark, Bathe and Beyond. He has the coolest van that drives backwards up our driveway and lets me sit in the front seat with him sometimes.  Stupid Nigel usually doesn’t get baths with Rich, because most of the time he rolls in something dead and Daddy has to hose him down in the driveway before he’s allowed back in the house.

First, it’s my turn.  Because I say so.  I get to go and Nigel has to stay.  Stay, Nigel. Stay! Ha! ha!

Anyway. I told Rich he could just drive away because Nigel didn’t want to get a bath anyway. I told him that he didn’t have to walk me to the door to Mamma, because I had a few errands to run first and I’d find my way back. Dang. I’ll find a way, next time. Until then,I’m going to keep my eye on things so I can be sure that Rich doesn’t give Nigel a better bath than me.

I heard Daddy telling my neighbor that the reason I like it when Rich brings the bath here, is because I get a happy ending. A happy ending for me would be if I got two baths and Nigel got none. A hound can dream, can’t he.

After approximately $1200, three rounds of anti-inflammatories, x-rays read by a Vet, a Doggie Radiologist and a Doggie Orthopedic Surgeon, we have a diagnosis about Nigel’s limp.

::drum roll, please::

Nigel has a gnarled leg.

Does it hurt him? Not really. Does it slow him down? not really. Is it going to get worse? probably not. Is it indicative of something big and bad? No.

Sigh.

What’s worse than a centipede with athlete’s foot? A Basset with an ear infection. Nigel has one of those, too. I wonder if Pug owners have to take their dogs in to be treated for smashed faces.

Mine. Mine,mine, mine. My Mommy measured and mine is longer than Jean-Luc’s so Hah Hah Hah. By a whole half-inch. I know because when I walk, they touch the ground. so I have a longer ear than Jean-Luc, who is such a sissy that he doesn’t put his ears in the bowl when he drinks his water, and such a shorter-eared-hound that he doesn’t leave a trail.

so, I win.

Daddy says we smell funny but I smelled Nigel and he smelled pretty good, even ‘down there.’ This time we went to the Woof and Wash. It’s one of those places where your Daddy and Mamma wash you and someone else launders the towels and cleans hair out of the drains.  Sometimes the nice people there give us a bath, too.

It was great; we rode in Mamma’s car that doesn’t have a top.

I sang the whole way to the bath. Sometimes I stopped and yelled, “yo, get a car” to a few people. Stupid Nigel just sat in the back and bit at the air. I told him that if he didn’t tell everyone how happy he was to be there, he’d have to get scrubbed in the driveway again.

Woof and Wash is in Mt.Kisco and I love it. Except for the “wash” part, that is. First, Daddy boosted me up into a ledge and attached my head to a loop. Mamma did the same with Nigel. Then, we both get water hosed on us and shampoo rubbed all over us. Then they squirt us off, dry us with hairdryers and towels, and Jason cuts our toenails. We like that because then we can sneak out of the house without Mamma hearing us.

So what if our eyes look funny.  If Mamma could work the Photoshop, well, you could see how great I look and how Nigel didn’t know what to do.  I told Nigel to stand up — he sat down through the whole bath. I told him that if he didn’t stand up, his butt wouldn’t get cleaned and I was right.  I checked.

I’m always right.

Woof and Wash

Geez.  F*cking hot out there.  If I don’t make a list, nothing will get done.

-Eat.

-Drink.

-Nap

-Bark

-Drool.

-go outside

-Come back in again.

-Shed.

-Repeat.

Yeah, it’s a dog’s life.  If it ever gets cool around here, I’m going to add “race crazily through house with a stuffed monkey in my mouth.”  but for now, the only thing I’m chasing is Z’s.

The question:

-dollars for Mamma’s Jimmy Choo sandals (not the ones Jean-Luc chewed)

-Miles to my oldest brother’s college

-pounds of gorilla that my Daddy keeps talking about

-Dollars to diagnose my paw owie

Hey, I’m worth it.  No matter what Jean-Luc says.

Hey.  Most days, I’m happy playing with a paper towel tube or whatever socks I can find — often, a bug will suffice.  But for some reason,Mamma keeps bringing home toys.  Some make noises (a bean, a gorilla, a pig and a lobster), and some just squeak and look funny (feet, rubber chickens, a big yellow orangutan).  But the other day, she brought home the most wonderful toys:  Dirty Rotten Kitty, and Chef Doggie Dog.

they are MINE,all mine.  Jean-Luc may not have them.  I called them, I dibs’ed them, and he won’t listen.  I take DRK to my bed for a little gnawing, and there he is, with CDD, trying to hide him under the table.  No!  No no!  I race across to get Chef Doggie and as soon as I get him, Jean-Luc takes Dirty Kitty!  Once I finally got Dirty Kitty and Chef Doggie, both, with me, Jean-Luc just sat there and watched. I thought he was falling asleep, and I finally could relax.  I turned my head for a second and what does he do?  Covers about 15 feet with one big jump, and pinned me to the floor.  I got the loose skin in front of his ear firmly in my teeth and pulled, and he retaliated by taking a big bite of my whole face.  Think of the circus guys putting their heads into the lion’s mouth, but with it being the Lion’s idea.  Dammit!  Mamma finally stepped into the fight, took Dirty Rotten Kitty and Chef Doggie Dog, and put them away.  Know what she said?

I’m the Alpha, Beyotch.  Never forget that.

Jean-Luc here.  Man, what a morning I’ve had already.  Up at the crack of dawn, and a full day ahead.

First, I’m trying to enjoy a leisurely breakfast when I see out of the corner of my eye:  Nigel.  Heading straight for my bowl.  he does this every effing morning:  gobbles HIS food and then heads for mine. No way, Joe-Say, I say.  I had to bite down hard on his ear and bark right at him; still, the dumbass doesn’t get it.  Daddy had to step in and, while it’s embarrassing to have to have your Dad guard your food so your brother doesn’t eat it, I’ll take it.  And plot how to make Nigel eat slower.  Maybe if I showed him the stats on obesity in Basset Hounds, and got my hands on a Glamour magazine nutrition issue so he can see that in order to eat less, he should take a bite, chew, contemplate, and stop when he’s full — NOT when his bowl is empty and his brother has more food on his plate.

Speaking of overeating, I ate all the Provolone.  Mamma was getting some out of the refrigerator and Nigel and I were taking down the barricade to the basement and mud room.  We were trying to be quiet, but the woman has ears like … a Basset hound!  She put the cheese down on the table, scolded us, and then returned to her cooking and I was being so so quiet.    I carefully wedged my tongue into the ziploc top of the bag, and caaaaarefully got the cheese out.   thank god it wasn’t the stuff with paper between all the slices or I’d really be sick.  Anyway, Mamma got to me just when I finished the provolone. she didn’t see the Colby packet immediately, but soon after, and following a chase through the house, I gave it back to her.  Dammit.

She said I’m going to pay for this.  I say a basset hound with stomach issues is the gift that gives to the whole family.

Hee hee.

My Mamma left me for a whole week. Can you F**king believe it? She was playing spy games or something like that — CIA classes. I canNOT believe it. In protest, I pooped on the rug a few times and escaped once. that escape was fun, because one of my shorteared brothers picked me up in the big red car while I was smelling Brooksie’s tennis balls (the ones his daddy Jason throws to him, get your mind out of the gutter) and my brother lets me ride in the front seat.  (Hee hee:  I trained Daddy to send Mommy text messages from his Blackberry every time Jean-Luc and I pooped inside or escaped from the back yard.)

but I digress.  And I’m not letting her out of my sight for a few days.

My Daddy said I was limping. I thought I was doing the pimp roll but Daddy called it a limp. He waited for it to go away on his own, which Mamma said is Daddy-speak for “let Mamma take care of it, I have to play some golf.”

Dr. K. pulled on me, did some tests, looked into my mouth (I have no idea what he expected to see there), and Mamma held me throughout. I tried to tell Dr. K. about the pimp roll and how I saw it on a TVshow that my brothers were watching, but every time I opened my mouth he grabbed my jaws and pulled on my tongue. So he shot stuff into me and took stuff out of me, and Nicole and Steph rubbed my ears, while mamma hung out in the waiting room.

the diagnosis: Paw Owie.

Well, at least it’s not an ear infection or terminal wrinkles. I’d be screwed.

I wonder if Barack Obama gets elected and wealth has to be redistributed, does that mean people without basset hounds get one of us? Does that mean that basset hounds without toys get all my chewies and all of Nigel’s cardboard? that’s not good.

but on the upside, there’s a yard in our neighborhood with some great smelly stuff in the grass out front. We don’t have any of that in our yard, and when we take Mamma out for a walk, she won’t let us roll in it. so maybe if we vote Democrat we’ll get some better smells in our yard, too.

All this deep political discourse is exhausting. Time for a nap.