Friday, July 23, 2010

In Which I Fail an IQ Test

With nothing better to do on a Friday night, I decided to take a page from Hyperbole and a Half, and test my dog's IQ.  There are 6 different tests, and before starting, the rules warn to treat it like a game and not get upset or concerned if the dog can't figure his way through one of the 6 puzzles.

Puzzle 1: show the dog a treat and then let him see you put it beneath a can.  Then, allow the dog to work his way to the treat.
I knew this one was going to be difficult when I was failing it for him in my quest for a can.  I looked in the recycling, only to see that damn!  boyfriend emptied that.  So, clear thinking individual that I am, I went for the trash, reaching for that can of beans that boyfriend took out of fridge last night for security's sake.  The stench alone managed to cut straight through my snot-riddled head and was the physical manifestation of stink.  For the second night in a row, can of beans knocked me on my ass.
After all the vomiting, I decided on a measuring cup.  Put treat under it, dog stared lasers through it, and quickly got down to business.  Neither the measuring cup nor the treat stood a chance.

Smarty dog! I squeeled in delight.
Then dog decided everything on floor must be a treat and ate about 800 ants, a piece of paper, chewed on my hand weights, and then careened throughout household on epic quest for morsels.
Not so sure how to judge that one.

Puzzle 2:  Throw towel over dog's head and judge how long until he finds his way clear.
Yes!  Doggy is like Odin! and is clear in seconds flat.  Except towel must have been covered in weird puppy hormones, and dog's red rocket shoots out.  I bend down to save towel from floor and dog goes manic, spinning in helicopter mode, knocks into my legs.  I reach for new bookshelves, only to stub my toe, knock them over, and fall all crazy-like to floor, clutching shelves.
Maybe I should be taking an IQ test.  Dog 1, Caitie 0.  Bookshelves....less than stellar.

Puzzle 3: with dog sitting about 6 feet away, make eye contact.  After a few seconds, smile broadly.  Faster the dog responds to smile and comes over, smarter dog is.
Dog can't help but be charmed and races over.   I am nearly charmed right back, but then red rocket brushes my hand, and suddenly I feel dirty and ashamed.  Go to your spot.
Dog 2, Caitie 0.  Bookshelves still sulking.

Puzzle 4: Show dog another treat, and place treat under tea towel.  Encourage dog to find treat. is wicked smaht.  Perhaps dog could help me find keys...
10 seconds, guys.  This dog is potentially much smarter than me.

Puzzle 5:  Place treat in spot dog cannot reach with head, and must use paws to pull it closer.
Dog just invented tools!  Dog may as well have invented the Gopher.  He used mangled toy, and swept it under table, pulling treat out.  Dog is going to Harvard.

Puzzle 6: have dog seated away from you.  After he is settled in, using tone you'd use to say his name, instead, call, "Refrigerator."  If dog looks, but does not respond he's apparently discerning the difference, and thus is smart.
Shit.  Dog has flunked out of Harvard.  Dog comes racing out of his bed when called, "Refrigerator."  I think perhaps dog is so smart he knows that food is kept in refrigerator, and is showing entirely understandable reaction.  Same reaction I show when I hear "refrigerator" called.  I have dog go back to bed, wait a few minutes and call, "Closet!"
Dog turbo-jets out of bed, careening into my legs, once again angering book shelves.  But of course!  Dog knows shoes are kept in closet and shoes mean walk!  How could I be so short-sighted?  Dark murmurs begin to creep in.
"Sarah Palin!"   I whisper from bedroom.  Dog bolts in, and jumps on bed.  Obviously, he is attack-ready.
"Aerobics!"  In a flash, dog is at my side.  Dreams of Harvard have fallen by the wayside.  Dog should know by know that fitness has no place in this home. ashamed.  Dog sits, looking at me with tilted head.  Desperately trying to understand why I haven't given him a cookie.

Sunday, July 18, 2010

In Which I Get a Massage

There was a poster of the muscular system on the door of the room I was placed in, waiting for my massage.  Practically nekkid, lying under a thin sheet, staring at the muscles of a friggin god.  It makes a person feel, at the very least, humble.  Realistically, I felt more  like a beached whale brought in for the autopsy.  Then I think how funny it would be if it was the muscles of just some average schlub, with bad posture and a trick knee.  I would like to see them standing together.  I wonder what schlub's butt would look like, and if it would be better than mine.

The lady came in and started to raise the table, prompting my need to comment that I felt like I was at the dentist.  Which then prompted her shushing me.  Now I feel like I'm in school.
"Just try to relax," she instructed.
How do I relax when a gore-tastic Superman is over there staring at me?

You know your brain is being a little too chatty when you spend 60 minutes wondering if you're laying correctly on the table.  She lifts your leg from under the sheet and you attempt to assist.  "Just relax," she says again.

If I knew how to do that, I wouldn't be here.