In Which I Write a Book

I've decided upon an idea for a book.  Pretty sure it'll be a best-seller.


How to Tell if Your Dog is an Asshole.

Chapter 1:  Does Your Dog Look Like This?

If so, then clearly your dog is already an asshole, and you have failed.  Big time.  Better luck next time, sucker.

You have many things to look forward to as an unwilling, embarrassed owner of an asshole dog.  Things like, coming home to find your dog has raided your entire underwear drawer, and eaten all the good undies, leaving you with only granny panties, and that one pair with dinosaurs all over them which are completely uncool, but you're not about to throw them out now that you have no options, now are you?  So stop asking!
Your asshole dog will also raid your landlords' compost heap, and then wake you up by licking you right on the mouth.  Except your mouth was open, because, let's face it, you're one of those mouth-breathers, and now you have a weird piece of compost grit stuck in your teeth, and your boyfriend realllly doesn't want to kiss you.
Your asshole dog will also steal your belongings, and everyone else's belongings, run away with them despite your repeated shrieking, and then taunt you, a mere ten feet away, leaping just out of your grasp.  He will do this with your purse, and your socks, or your friend's books or shoes.  Anything he can get his jerk teeth around will fall prey to this behavior.  Just as he tires of the game, he will make eye contact with you, drop the object, and pee on it.

Maybe it's your own fault, though.  Remember that first car ride, when you held him in your lap and he looked up at you with those cute puppy eyes and then unleashed a massive pee flood?  You should have turned around and brought him right back for a refund and an apology.  But you didn't, did you?  No, you thought I can train this little sucker.  He'll be a star pooch!


But you were wrong.  You were so wrong.  Your dog is an asshole.  And now everybody will think you are an asshole for keeping him.  And here's the thing about asshole dogs:  they are invincible.  They can fall off cliffs, get hit by cars, whatever.  Asshole never dies.

Laying Down Life Lessons

Before starting off with some fantastical story, I'd like to take a moment here to plug myself.
....no....that sounded wrong.  So wrong.
I just mean that you may have noticed I now have this little bar off to the left for followers.  This means, you can now easily follow me, and get notifications whenever I update.  Theoretically, this is to make your life easier, but in actuality it is one more step on my way to becoming famous and wealthy and just utterly fabulous.  So fabulous, that such lewd remarks as "plug myself" will fall by the wayside, not being fabulous enough to keep up.
So there you have it.
Be a follower.
Join the flock.
Allow me to think for you.

Today, I'm thinking about a dog.  Specifically, a dog that arrived in my life when I was 15.
I hated her.  Then, when she grew on me, I seemed incapable of coming up with a suitable name for the small, black puppy.
One morning, as my dad drove me to school, he said (not unlike Mr. King, Jr.), "I had a dream.  We were calling the puppy Via (he pronounced it "Wee-eye"), seemed like a pretty good name.  Whaddaya think?"
"What does it mean?"
"Nothing.  Just a name."
"A name should mean something.  In Latin, Via means 'road.' Why would I want to name a dog Road?"
*sighs* "The dog needs a name, Caitlin."
"if you add a 't' then it would mean Life.  Like...Vita.  But I don't wanna pronounce it the way you're supposed to, with the v sounding like a w.  It should just sound like a v."
"So...Veeeetah?"
"Yeah.  Vita."

It fit.  Vita was a beautiful representation of life.  She loved it.  She was happy, and clever, and insistent upon being friends with everybody.  I learned that the children waiting at the bus-stop had named her "Wiggles," because she was always so thrilled to see them every morning.  She looked after all of us.

She died shortly after I moved to California.  I didn't give her much of a goodbye, so sure that there would be time enough for one more visit.

But I don't want to think about that.  Let me tell you about what Vita taught me:
There is never enough ice-cream in the world, and there is no shame in enjoying it.
A good walk with your pack can make even the worst day better.
When someone is sad, the best thing to do is to sit with them quietly.
Couches and beds are always preferable to the floor.
Cover yourself in smells you like.
Take enjoyment from those around you.
Be patient.
Be kind.
Undies fresh out of the dryer are nothing short of awesome.
Nap in front of the fireplace.
There's no shame in snoring.
Ladies DO fart, and they do it with abandon.
Always call shotgun.
Enjoy a good wiggle.
Take from life what you can, while you can, and give back even more before you go.

Thanks V.  You were one of a kind.