I used to look at my dog and think, ‘if you were a little smarter, you could tell me what you were thinking,’
and he’d look at me like he was saying, ‘if you were a little smarter, I wouldn’t have to.’ – Fred Jungclaus
I have a natural instinct for science. If dogs evolved from wolves, why are there still wolves?
Piles of The New Yorker magazine piled about. Hence the term. Skim every issue, honest, but there’s just too much. Too much good long intelligent expensive writing to consume, so mostly I just look at the cartoons and restaurants I can’t afford and museums I’ll never visit. Swann Galleries always something going on. The John Helmer ad. Mostly, I just look at the cartoons.
Crap. Sometimes I think God is talking to me via New Yorker cartoons. Only thing makes sense.
Unlike a few of the cartoons. I’m not smart enough to overthink things.
Page 40, October 15th edition. Weyant cartoon. A couple of dogs walking along down a city sidewalk past a shoe store. One looks like a plush pale poodle, eyes askance. The other a squarish mongrely-type, who says, “I bark and I bark but I never feel like I effect real change.”
See page 74, same issue. A Maddie Dai cartoon of a writer sitting at his desk, staring at his computer, coffee cup, pencil and notebook nearby. Also nearby, a woman with hard copy and her own coffee cup. The writer, bespectacled with a few days beard growth, appears surprised. ”I’m starting to get worried. How am I going to be adored, parodied, venerated, denounced, redeemed, and ultimately mythologized if I can’t get published.”
“The Notorious RBG” is killing me. Turns a dozen (12) weeks old today. Not hyperbole to say Ragnar’s doubled in size since we got him. Can’t decide if he feels more like a 4H project or a science fair exhibit. Not quite housebroken just yet. Some of that might be my fault. He goes to the door, I can’t see the door from where I’m sitting.
You’ll like this, where being something of a scientist comes in handy, I changed the angle of the mirrored end table next to the television so I can see not only the bottom twelve inches of the lanai door but the puppy’s back end. He’s not yet a patient creature and I am past the days of leaping up at a moment’s notice.
Ragnar actually went to the door and rapped hard, asking for a rapid exit. We were stunned. So proud, until the next time I missed the signals and he hit the carpeting. I’ll be honest, thought housebreaking a pup would be easier. Problem turns out… climate change. Add my name to the list of 99% of the world’s scientists who are convinced global warming is real. Baby dog won’t even go out in this heat – I’ll just pee where it’s air-conditioned, he seems to say. Don’t much blame him.
No end in sight. At night I try to leave the door ajar. Still too hot. The puppy goes to bed at nine and the crying starts about four a.m. in the morning. I wipe my tears and take him outdoors. Sometimes I get back to sleep.
He’s exhausting. And now he’s starting to hump my wife’s dog, easily three times (3x) his size. Only twelve weeks old. Kinda proud.
Of course, as any dog scientist will tell you, he’s only trying to exert his imagined dominance. What boys do.
Was hoping to have him housebroken before the next New Yorker arrived.
Page 59, October 22nd. Cheney the artist. A beturbaned fortune teller is predicting the future.
“I see a series of cataclysmic events that will forever alter the course of human history, and, as usual, it will be all about you.”
Not worried. Scientifically speaking.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MEv-xVjyJ_o