Mulli of the MidWest

Did Pennie learn nothing under my guidance?

First, as a reminder, one of the favorite family nicknames for me was: "MO."

Since I have been gone, the "Good" Dog, that being Pennie, has slowly been "MO-orphing." While I, Mulligan, was around it was easy for Pennie to be considered the "Good Dog." She always made sure I took the blame for everything. Now, as an Only Dog, Mom and Dad have the opportunity see Pennie's true colors, and indeed she has developed many bad habits that remind them of me!

All my true hopes of Pennie MO-Orphing have been completely abandoned after Halloween. The family left the house, leaving ALL the Halloween Candy Loot in plastic bags sitting right up on the kitchen counters! Oh, if I had only been alive, I would have eaten every bit of candy, wrapper, and even plastic bags!

Pennie? Mom and Dad came home to discover Halloween Candy all over the house. Mom was horrified. "Oh, no, is Pennie poisoned? Has she eaten all that chocolate?"

No. Pennie did indeed get into the bags of Halloween candy. She spread Halloween Candy all over the house. Intact. A Full Size Hershey Bar was found in the Living Room.

One little box of Milk Duds was found opened, neatly, and the contents consumed. The rest of the candy just needed to be gathered back up.

What happened to Pennie's MetaMO-orphis?

What about Brotherly Love?

Middle Lad must select a Biography to read for his Language Arts Class. Naturally, I assumed that he would read my Diary; afterall who could be more interesting to read about, indeed to learn from, than Me, Mulligan? My adventures provide an amazing assortment of ideas for a Project and/or Poster.

I led a deeply enriched life, enriched even more by the strange assortment of non-food objects that I ate.

Yet, No, Middle Lad insists upon heading out to the bookstore to purchase a book about some famous personage such as Einstein or Tolkein or Stalin.

My whole faith in Brotherly Love is Crushed.

How I, Mulligan, pawsonally, was a Global Warming Warrior

Now Dogs are being blamed for Global Warming. Or at least contributing to it. I take great offense at this. If I were alive, I would give one of my great Mulli Huffs.

I, Mulligan, felt that I was a Global Warming Warrior.

I pooped in my backyard. This created my own pawsonal "Fertile Crescent" of lush green landscape. Then Pennie came, and further created a Chemical Free Lawn that, if Mom allowed the Lads to go barefoot, they would have loved to sink their toes into the greeness of it all.

That was my first contribution to Global Warming Warrior. The 0.6 acres of the Mulligan Compound grew lush and green, contributing valuable Oxygen, yes Oxygen, NOT Carbon Monoxide or Dioxide, to the Atmosphere.

Two. Mom and Dad did not need to use ANY outside fertilizer source on the yard. The run-off from chemically-enhanced yards causes the nutrient level in creeks, then rivers, and ultimately lakes and oceans, to be off-balanced, allowing non-benificial plants to grow instead of optimal plant life.

Three. I ate a varied diet. Aluminum grill pans. Hershey's Kiss wrappers. Diaper Delights. (Oh, the memories of those moist creamy centers, each one a different surprise, like a variety box of Fine Chocolates.) Nintendo Games. Therefore my poop RE-Cycled precious minerals BACK into the soil. Yes. Someday Nations will be fighting for the Mineral Rights to the Mulligan Compound.

Four. Warmth. I, Mulligan, was a veritable Space Heater. Mom is a naturally "cold" person. Dad always had to keep the house warmer for Mom's benefit. With me around, the thermostat could be set lower at night as Mom snuggled in with me.

Five. Exercise. One never knew when I was going to go on a Mulli Rampage, doing great Mulli circles around the house. This further raised the heat level in the house.

Six. Cooling. The accumulation of my shed hair provided valuable insulation to the Mulligan Compound. This reduced temperature variations in the house, allowing the house to stay cooler despite warm temperatures outside.

Oh, my great Mulligan Ego and Brain can easily come up with a multitude of more reasons why I was a Global Warming Warrior, but I do believe that I have already made my case.

Unexpected Jobless Claims

It has come to the attention of my exceedingly large Mulli-Brain that there are more casualties due to this new "disease du jour," of Swine Flu. In most recent years West Nile Virus, Mad Cow Disease, and Bird Flu captured the attention of Mass Media Hysteria as the "Diseases du jours."

With the new focus on Swine, what about all those Mad Cows, Birds, and Mosquitoes, the carriers of those Once Popular Diseases? There is simply no work for them to do. All the attention and effort is on the Pig and the Mad Cows and Birds are finding themselves without jobs. The Mosquitoes always have Malaria to fall back on and the West Nile Mosquitoes have simply joined ranks with the Malaria Mosquitoes.

That leaves the Mad Cows and the Birds. They are out of jobs and NOT able to file Jobless Claims. No. If they go stand in line at the Unemployment Office, no doubt one of the Human Jobless Persons will eye that Cow or Bird and think: Steaks and Chicken for Dinner tonight. Same thing at the Soup Kitchen. A Jobless, Hungry, Cow or Chicken dare not go to a Soup Kitchen for the certainty that tomorrow's menu will be Beef Stew and Chicken Soup. Even the Old Standby Jobs of the Cow, e-coli, and the Birds, Salmonella, are being effected by this Swine Flu Epidemic. All the Hand-Washing and Surface Disinfecting going on to destroy Swine Flu is decreasing e-coli and Salmonella jobs as well.

This Swine Flu Epidemic must get under control to bring some Equity back to the Animal-Associated Illnesses. It is quite unfair of the Swine to capture all the media attention and leave the other animals to go hungry.

For Dogs sake I hope the Cows and Birds don't decide to try to take jobs away from Dogs! It was hard enough for Mom to sleep with Me, Pennie, and Dad, in the Concrete Queen; imagine making room for a full grown Steer. And think of all the Poop if the Birds try to hone in Dog Territory. How many little Poop Bags would be needed each day to clean up after a bird!

Fallen From Grace

I have complained in the past of that Do-Gooder Dog Pastor Max. Pastor Max often comes to Church and gives a sermon! Yes, he gives a Sermon to the Children during "Children's Time" before the Children are sent off to Children's Church, so the Parents can sit through the rest of Church in Peace for Dog's sake. Pastor Max, like most Pastors, has a variety of Tricks including Praying, in which he sits down, puts his front paws on a chair and then bows his head. Pastor Max even BARKS a resounding AMEN!

I never cared for the Sundays that Pastor Max Preached and Mom would come home and gush on and on to me "what a Good Boy" Pastor Max was, and how he let all the children come unto him and pet him.

Well. Today Mom happened to be standing at the post-service buffet line with the DAD of Pastor Max. Mom made an inquiry into how Pastor Max was spending his Sunday morning. It turns out Pastor Max was spending HIS Sunday morning in a CAGE. Er Crate. Whatever.

Pastor Max's Dad was quite willing to dish up the full dirt, fleas and all on Pastor Max. Pastor Max is NOT a Good Dog. In fact, just like Me, Mulligan, Pastor Max has Opposable Thumbs. Pastor Max can open the kitchen cabinets. Pastor Max eats non-food items. Pastor Max is destructive.

I suppose it is un-charitable of me, but I am thrilled to know that Pastor Max is NO Angel. Perhaps that is why he has had to learn to Pray.

All of my Tutoring has Paid Off!

I came into the Oldest Lad's Life at the beginning of his Sophomore Year in Public High School. His grades from his Freshman Year were not stellar. I set to work immediately with an intense tutoring program. I taught him to drive. I cajoled and growled at him through the ACT and SAT. I nursed him through AP Physics, urging him on to take the AP Exam and earn College Credit for Physics.

Now, Oldest Lad is on the cover of a National Magazine.

Yes. The Back Cover of University of Cincinnati Alumni Magazine features Oldest Lad, Front AND Center!

I am soooooo proud. Mom and Dad are beaming. They are certain that all that time they forced Oldest Lad to sit at the desk and do his homework, the endless math fact flashcards; it was all worth it.

Here is the link:

O ldest Lad picture

Then at the center top, where the arrows are, select "Back Page."

It helps if "Zoom" is then selected, for Full Effect.

Oldest Lad is the "C." Can't miss him. The red person with the black "C," red bandana, and sunglasses -- that's Oldest Lad.

Just like going to the Vet.

Mom received phone calls and emails from the Public School today that soon H1N1 immunizations will be taking place, as the schools will be official "Dispensing Sites."

Hmmph. I, Mulligan, simply fail to see what the big deal is. Veterinarians have "Shot Clinics" all the time. Veterinarians have "Spay and Neuter" clinics, as well.

Which of course, brings me to add yet another point to my Mulligan Healthcare Plan.

The Public Schools will be dispensing H1N1 Immunizations.

The Public Schools are, well, Public.

The "Public Option," by it's many names to make it sound more or less pallitable, is a hotly contested issue of the HealthCare Reform Legislation.

While the H1N1 Vaccines are given out, why not hold a free "Spay and Neuter" clinic for the students?

Hurry! the weather is turning colder!

Hurry! the weather is turning colder AND October is Adopt-A-Dog Month. Obviously, in America October was chosen as Adopt-A-Dog month in preparation for winter. With Cap and Trade set to add at least $1200 per family in energy bills, plus the general state of the economy, now is the time to add another Green Energy Thermal Device to each home. That of course, would be a Dog!

I am quite disappointed that Mom is not ready to begin interviewing my replacement (s) in order to save on her heating bill this winter.

This just caps off my Ultimate Disappointment that the Pending Healthcare Reform Legislation does NOT include Compression Therapy! In the 8 million pages of Healthcare Reform, surely there could be at least ONE little paragraph mandating that each family have at least ONE Dog to perform Compression Therapy, especially with the imminent H1N1 Epidemic! This truly solidifies my belief that none of the elected officials are interested in saving ANY money for the common taxpayer, as having a Dog to perform Compression Therapy adds Zero, yes Zero, dollars to the Federal Deficit.

Anyhoo, with Adopt-A-Dog Month just around the corner, I have come up with further arguments why Dogs are better than Children.

You do not have to let the Dog drive your car.

Once dogs reach adult size, usually within a year, they stop growing. No emergency trips to Macy's because it is Autumn, the weather is suddenly cold, and Middle Lad has suddenly outgrown all his pants. In fact, other than the dogs with the shortest hair (who can get by with just one or two jackets) NO clothes are needed for a dog.

Dogs don't have homework which you have to force them to do.

Dogs may "whine," but you don't have to take them to Target, the grocery store, Church, or anywhere else and LISTEN to them whine.

Dogs do not use too much toilet paper and cause it to "rain" into the kitchen below.

Oh, sure dogs aren't perfect, but we are far more perfect than any child. Go to the shelter and grab a "Green" Energy Device before it gets too cold!

Suburban Terrorists?

I am growing rather alarmed that Mom may be secretly a Terrorist. For the past couple years Mom has been quite obsessed, yes, OBSESSED with Afghans. No Pakistans. No Kyrgyzstans. Only Afghans. We are of course currently in our 8th year of war with Afghanistan. On Friday, Mom recieved in the mail TWO more books on Afghans. One book alone contains the instructions on how to make 100, yes one hundred Afghans! What could the Mulligan Compound possibly do with 100 Afghans? Oh, these Afghans are pretty enough, with their colorful yarns and repeating patterns, but why is Mom so obsessed with them? Mom must be planning to make even more Afghans and then to distribute them!

I, Mulligan, indeed found myself on several occasions entwined in one of Mom's innocent looking Afghans. Oh, it looked so soft and cozy, and the next thing I knew, a toe was hooked into a loop of yarn, and then a whole paw, and what could have happened next if I had not managed to release myself? Was this all part of a plot on Mom's part to slowly encase me in this soft web of yarn until I strangled myself?

Yes, I am certain that Mom is part of a whole terrorist group of Afghan makers. The terrorists can easily buy yarn and an instruction manual at the local craft store or over the Internet. Soon the home-spun Terrorist is crocheting or knitting Afghans to distribute all over Suburbia, the State or America!

Suburbia and Pork

Apparently my area of Suburbia did not qualify for any Economic Stimulus Money. Obviously the representatives for Suburbia must learn to Pull Pork! The denizens of my street took matters into their own recession-al hands and it was widely advertised that there was going to a Multi-Family Street Sale. How can this happen? Did ALL the families agree? I know for a fact that Mom would never agree to sell the street. Her Van is NOT an Off-road vehicle and she NEEDS the street in order to gain access to the Mulligan Compound. Oh, yeah, the more expensive houses in the subdivision behind us that use our street as an access road all have huge off-road SUVs, but not us. Would there still be bus service once the street was sold off? What would all the dogs living here along the street do all day? A major portion of a dog's life is to monitor activity "on the street." Pennie and I fairly live(d) our schedule by the school bus routes so we knew when to bark at all those nasty school children.

Anyhoo, Pennie accompanied Mom today to pick up Middle Lad from Taekwondo. It turns out that only the OTHER end of the Street was involved in the Multi-Family Street Sale. I do hope they don't expect to send their children all up to OUR bus stop or Pennie will go hoarse having to monitor all those children.

Within his rights

"Bear Attacks Colorado Man in His Home"

That is the headline of an article on FoxNews.com posted from Aspen, Colorado. Why are people upset at the Bear? If the Man was inside the Bear's Home, then isn't the Bear fully within his rights to attack the man?

Mulligan's Recession Measures

The Mulligan Compound of late has been partaking in various cost-saving measures. Despite blips on the screen that the Recession may be lifting, it does seem that prices continue to rise. Mom has taken to forcing the Lads to submit to "Recession Haircuts." The Oldest Lad uses his clippers to cut the Lads hair. Mom has yet to submit herself to a "Recession Haircut." One of the Cable Boxes was returned, despite the inevitable increase in family dis-harmony.

Often in my diary I have pointed out ways to save money. The best way to prepare for the winter is to add more dogs to each family. I simply fail to understand why so many dogs are being added to shelters with the "economy" being given as the excuse. It is far more economical to have more dogs!

Lower the furnace setting at night, or even forget heating the house at night in the winter, by sleeping with one or more dogs per person, depending on the size of the dog and the size of the person.

No need to vacuum, saving electricity, vacuum cleaner bags, and trash bags for those "bag-less" vacuums. The dog will keep the floor clean of food scraps. The dog hair can be left on the floor and furniture, providing natural insulation and warmth, or natural cooling in the summer. (Mom barely survived vacation without Pennie along to clean the floor and high chair tray up after the Wee Lass.)

For homes with a fireplace; dog chips can be collected from the backyard, dried and burned. Many of our early American Pioneers survived long winters burning Cow Chips. This is also a "Green" option as no more dog waste bags ending up in the land fills!

Pennie just had her nails clipped at the local pet store for only Five Dollars! Ladies can just head over to the pet store and get a manicure AND peticure for only $5, plus save gas money by picking up their pet supplies at the same time.

Save water by having the dog (s) pre-rinse all the dishes.

And of course no need for some fancy Gym membership or a Wii Fit. Walk the Dog!

Pennie and the Corn Muffins

Pennie recently had an incident of an Intrusion at the Mulligan Compound! The Neighborhood surrounding our 0.6 acres of Suburbia has recently become a "Neighborhood Watch" designated area. Obviously this has turned out to be yet another waste of Taxpayers Money.

Pennie was alone in the house. An Intruder came, retrieved a bag of home-baked corn muffins from the kitchen counter, and proceeded to eat them, leaving corn muffin crumbs, and the plastic bag, all over the Family Room floor. The Intruder them went upstairs and, being thirsty after all those corn muffins, got into the Bath Tub. The evidence was clear, as paw prints were left all over the bath tub, even on the bath toys!

Pennie was able to engage the Intruder and force him/her to leave. She was unable to clean up the mess as the vacuum cleaner is temporarily at Oldest Lad's new (er, ancient) University digs, and lacking opposable thumbs, Pennie could not open the cleaning wipes container to wipe up the bath tub.

What is the point of Neighborhood Watch if these Busy Body Neighborhood Watchers are NOT Watching? Pennie was OFF duty; the Neighborhood Watchers were clearly ON schedule and look what happened! Our friend Louie in fact suggested that perhaps it was the Neighborhood Watchers who were the Intruders. Upon smelling the corn muffins they watched until Mom left, then subdued Pennnie, ate the corn muffins, and then revived Pennie in the bath tub, leaving Pennie's own paw prints in the tub.

In this Post 9/11 Era, how can these Egregious Communication Errors amongst Protection Agencies Occur? I submit that Neighborhood Watching must be returned to the DOGS! Dogs have been doing a perfectly acceptable, beyond acceptable even, job of Neighborhood Watch for centuries. Pennie must now never know when she can be truly at rest for it is clear that the Busy Bodies of the Neighborhood Watch are just that: Busy Bodies.

Take down those Tax Payer Funded Neighborhood Watch Signs and put up Dog Watch Signs! That will truly mean something. In fact, put pictures of the favorite Breed Specific Law Dogs such as Pit Bulls or Rottweillers on the signs and really make Suburia-ites think before they invade!

H1N1 Evolutionary Theory

I do believe that this year's Disease Du Jour may come down to the Survival of the Fittest.

This weekend the Family, minus Oldest Lad and Pennie, travelled to visit Grandma. Little Lad has not, as far as the family knows, been infected with the H1N1 virus. However, he did have a flu-like illness early last week that prevent him from attending school for the first day. Following Public School District Protocol, Mom kept Little Lad home until he was without fever for a full 24 hours. During the flu-like illness, and subsequently, the Little Lad has turned into a Mucus Monster. Pawsonally, I think of it as the "Jelly Donut Stage." Yes, there is nothing quite so tasty as the Jelly Donut delight of a face just at tongue licking level and then the squishy surprize of a fresh mucus kleenex.

Anyhoodle, while visiting Grandma; Grandma ate a plate of food that Little Lad was finished with, but had not "cleaned." Now certainly it is fine for us Dogs to "clean plates," but humans are NOT supposed to "clean plates" for fear of catching germs such as H1N1.

There is just nothing I, Mulligan, can do, about Humans who "Clean Plates," especially after Mucus Monsters. All the Paw washing in the world, sung to "Happy Birthday" twice, to take up the requisite 15 to 20 seconds, will not change that type of behavior. Darwin will have to decide.

I have been SPAMMED!

In an egregious assault of DOGSTER itself, I, Mulligan, have had one of my Diary entries, yes, one of my very own Diary entries, Spammed.

This viscious attack occured sometime during the wee hours of the night, as all attacks do. I consider it an attack on all that is American and Righteous, and oh, the Family just had SPAM last night!

Indeed, last night Oldest Lad opened up a luscious can of SPAM to go with leftover Homemade Macaroni and Cheese. Therefore this SPAM Attack on my Diary is an Attack on MOMLINESS, the Family Unit, all things crusty, and able to fit in a 9 by 13 casserole dish! Oh, the vision of Homemade Macaroni and Cheese, the lovely bechamel white sauce so lovingly stirred, then the sharp cheddar added to make it a gooey rich mass of delight. Then it bakes and on it's own the noodles and cheese meld to form such a bubbly mass, with a crusty topping all it's own. How many times did Pennie and I almost tear each other to bits over who got to clean the dish? Mom would hold the dish for one of us for a turn, then the other, until it was spotless.

Anyhoodle, I digress. Oldest Lad decided to open another ALL-American Institution, a can of SPAM to go with his leftover Macaroni and Cheese. Why are SPAM attacks called SPAM? SPAM attacks are a cruel, sneaky, mean attack. SPAM the food is a useful, edible treat! The SPAM Liquid can be used to waterproof hiking boots. Although, I, Mulligan, would not pawsonally recommend this. Oh, I, Mulligan, am indeed a non-discriminatory Dog, as I have stated most recently in my Compression Therapy Health Care Plan. If a hiker wants to waterproof his/her hiking boots with Spam Liquid then by all means go ahead. It's just that I, Mulligan, pawsonally do not wish to attract a bear, or a jaguar or Sasquatch to come hiking with me, due to the wondrous odor of Spam eminating from my boots. It's not "discrimination" against bears, jaguars, and Sasquatch, per se; but well, I am afraid of them.

The SPAM meat itself can be eaten straight from the can; making it a perfect product to keep for emergencies. In non-emergencies, it can be fried up to a crispy delight, getting an attractive speckled brown crust, and imbueing the household with it's wondrous odor.

I, Mulligan, am obviously quite disturbed by this horrid SPAM attack on my Diary Entry. It is an attack on SPAM itself; an American Institution! It is a weak, spineless assault on ME, allowing Me no means to defend myself. And of course it is an attack on DOGSTER, which must NOT BE ALLOWED!

Compression Therapy, part Troix, Non-Discriminatory Health- Care

One of my friends brought up the point that Compression Therapy would be best delivered by a "Large" dog. While certainly I considered myself to be a dog of subsequent size and of statuous intelligence; I do believe that Compression Therapy can easily be carried out by a dog of ANY Breed, Mixed, or Pure, and of ANY Size.

The basic tenets of Compression Therapy are that the Dog must Lay Upon the Victim, I mean Patient AND Provide Naturally Humidified Healing Vapors, from Both Ends. Even the smallest Chihuahua can lay upon it's Patient. It may need to move occasionally to provide movement of body heat. Feed a Chihuahua the correct diet and trust me, it will proved adequate Vaporage.

While I myself have a "Natural" predilection towards dogs of larger size; truly size does not matter when it comes to Compression Therapy. Hurry! It is stated in ALL the headlines that there is expected to be a shortage of H1N1 vaccine, if and when it finally becomes available. SO Get to your local shelter NOW, where the lines are short, with no coughing, sneezing, virus shedding patrons, to snatch up more Compression Therapy Providers of all sizes!

Dog of the Day Could Not Prevent Viscious Attack At Zoo!

I may be honored with being Dog of the Day today, but I could do nothing to prevent Middle Lad from a Viscious Attack at the Cincinnat Zoo today. Dog Breed Specific Laws???? What about Bird Specific Laws???

Middle Lad, Little Lad, Mom and the Wee Lass were inside a bird display at the zoo. There was an opportunity to feed the birds. Mom and Little Lad both held the little popsicle stick with bird food stuck on it and Parakeets land on their arms and greedily nibbled at the proffered food. Middle Lad did NOT hold a popsicle stick of food, as Middle Lad has food allergies and most bird food has nuts in it, and Mom did not have her interrogation tools with her to interrogate the Bird Keeper about the exact nature of the ingredients of the bird feed and the possibility of an allergic reaction by Middle Lad.

Still, Middle Lad found himself quite attractive to several of the Parakeets, which landed on his head, arms, and hands. That is when the attack happened.

A Rogue Parakeet BIT Middle Lad. Yes. Middle Lad had a horrible, at least two, yes two, millimeter gash on his right index finger.

I am quite proud of Middle Lad for not using his Taekwondo moves to take out this Rogue Parakeet; Middle Lad is after all a brown belt with red tips.

I feel utterly helpless, bestowed with the honor of being Dog of the Day, yet it my current state, there is nothing I can do to Avenge the Honor of Middle Lad, other than pursue Bird Specific Laws. I must urge Pennie to dispense forthright with Compression Therapy and Naturally Humidified Healing Vapors.

Historical Evidence of Compression Therapy, Part Deux

As stated in my previous Diary Entry, there is Historical Evidence of the Healing Properties of Compression Therapy going back several hundred years. Although this casts doubt on my "invention" of Compression Therapy, I have now, in my Supreme Mulli-Mind, thought up a Great Advance In Compression Therapy.

Compression Therapy MUST be ADDED to the Healthcare, er Insurance, er, whatever Reform, it is going to be called Bill that is muddling it's way through Congress and the Sentate right now!

Yes, Dogsters, we must all urgently contact our Senators and Congresspersons and DEMAND that Doctors PRESCRIBE ALL American Households to have: at least ONE DOG. More Dogs. More Compression Therapy. More Healing Vapors. More Health.

Yes. Dogs must be added to Healthcare Reform.

Far worse than the Gas Prices of 2008, Sugar Crisis 2009

This has to be true, for I read it in the Wall Street Journal. There is a Sugar Crisis. Yes. Sugar prices are sky rocketing, causing the price of bread, cookies, candy, mmmm, all those tasty treats to go up! There is a worldwide, yes, Dogsters, a worldwide, Sugar Shortage!

This Sugar Crisis has far worse implications for us dogs. Sure with the Gas Prices of 2008, we faced less car rides, but it meant we got more WALKS, AND our families were forced to be HOME more. Frankly, the Gas Prices were good for us dogs.

But Sugar? Now this gets us where it hurts. Our bottom line. Our flavorful Home Baked Treats. Cap'n Crunch Cereal. Bread. Oh, think of all those luxurious Carbs right now inching their prices upwards, and our families cutting back on them! Scandalous!

Historical Evidence of Compression Therapy!

Mom was watching "Breed All About It," today while she ate her bowl of cereal. The show featured the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, the dog most favored by the historical crowns of England.

Anyhoo, in the 1500s and 1600s, Dogs, including these Spaniels, were Prescribed by Physicians to Ladies as "Lap Dogs" for their Healing Qualities. Yes, if a Lady had any kind of Respiratory or Stomach Distress, then a DOG, yes a DOG was prescribed to lay upon the Lady at night to help heal the Lady. Coincidentally, they were also useful in removing any vermin that might be crawling amongst the sheets.

There. Historical Evidence of Compression Therapy! I, Mulligan, or Pennie, would lay upon the victim's, er Patient's abdomen and chest, providing warmth, and naturally humidified healing vapors from both front (breath) and rear ends. In addition, the natural movement of the dog's body and fluids promote the circulation of the victim's, er Patient's own body fluids.

Compression Therapy is not a Hoax! With the serious threat of H1N1 looming this Autumn, get a large dog today, ready to provide Compression Therapy as soon as the Flu Strikes!

Tidy Dog

In Mom's recent visit to the Isle of Palms, SC, she noted that most of the male dogs visiting the beach were, er, "Intact."

That leads, Me, Mulligan to wonder: Are people with "Intact" dogs more likely to visit the Isle of Palms AND bring their dogs OR Are the Resident Isle of Palms Dogs more likely to be "Intact."

Here in Suburbia it is quite rare to see an "Intact" Male dog. Mom was a bit aghast at how UnTidy the whole thing (things) looked. Pawsonally, I felt that my Eunuchism was simply proof of my dedicated service to the Mulligan Compound. Now that I have time to further ponder it, I suppose it was rather "tidy," and I, Mulligan, was certainly a very clean, tidy dog. I was fastidious about personal hygeine, and attended to myself regularly throughout the day and often in the middle of the night, to the disturbance of my bedmates (Mom and Dad.) Unlike Pennie, I did not have the nasty habit of rolling in Deer Poop. I did like to dig, but miraculously, I was quite good at shaking the dirt off myself and returning my mostly white fur to it's sleek whiteness. Sometimes my face did get dirty, but Mom took care of that with Baby Wipes.

So overall, I am not unhappy that I was a Eunuch, dedicated to the service of the Mulligan Compound, and considering my penchance for Tidiness, I am now happy to learn that it also leant me a Tidy Dog Look.

Hassenpfeffer, ewwww!

I may have had the countenance and personality of a brute, but I preferred my Kibble from a bin, not fresh from the back yard!

After her bath today, Pennie ran off and caught a rabbit!

At least there is not more mystery as to how the dead rabbit arrived under the green car. Obviously Pennie must have dealt it a mortal wound and it ran off into the garage to escape her fangs.

This new rabbit was lucky enough to be saved from Pennie's jaws by Oldest Lad. The rabbit did have a bite near the tail, but Oldest Lad thought perhaps it was a "survivable" injury, and he let the poor bunny go.

Mom is most upset. She did not mind so much that Pennie rid the yard of all moles. But rabbits? Mom is just not so sure she wants to sleep with a dog with hassenpfeffer breath.

For Dog's sake, I never killed any of the creatures that entered the Mulligan Compound. No, after my years at the Shelter, I did not feel it was my place to evict souls from their home. Call me an old softee, but really, who needs Hassenpfeffer when there is Kibble, leftovers, Home-baked goodness to steal, oh, there are plenty of options other than a cute little bunny. Besides, with Mom's hatred of yard chemicals, how else was the Clover to be maintained?

Breed Specific Laws

I am certainly not an advocate of Breed Specific Laws. But my extremely over-sized brain does ponder sometimes the need for SOME legislation.

The family just returned from a visit to Charleston, SC, staying on the Isle of Palms. Incidentally, Mom lunched with the girls one day at "Poogan's Porch," the restaurant named after the dog Poogan. After Mom's first lunch at "Poogan's Porch," some two years ago, I realized that I, Mulligan, MUST have a name for my 0.6 acres of Suburbia, and subsequently after months of pondering the name of Mulligan Compound was launched.

Anyhoo, on the beach, dogs are allowed post 5:00 pm. The Wee Lass is OBSESSED with dogs. As soon as she saw a dog on the beach she would run as fast as her chubby legs would carry her over the sand to assault the poor beast.

At one point Mom had just saved two dogs from an assault from the Wee Lass when she realized that there was a large Mutt and a large Rottweiller a mere 10 feet behind her, paused as their parents "scooped" poop. Mom did her best to keep the Wee Lass distracted for she did not want to have to yell to the Rottweiller's parents: "You had better get your Rottweiller out of here before my Toddler attacks it!" Yes, it would have been awfully embarrassing for that poor Rottweiller to be attacked by the Wee Lass.

I am not a fan of Breed Specific Laws, but I am beginning to think that there should be Toddler Specific Laws.

Perimeter Defenses of Mulligan Compound Destroyed!

I am gone and now the very Periment Defenses of the Mulligan Compound are being Destroyed!

The back half of the Mulligan Compound is surounded by Bocage, er Hedgerow, made up of Honeysuckle. During World War II, once the Allies made it into Normandy, they discovered the Nazis holed up in this almost impenetrable mass of Bocage. The Allies had to root out the Nazis from these dense thickets almost one by one. Oh, the Normandy Bocage took hundreds of years to grow to it's depth, and my Bocage has only been growing for some 40 years, but still, it is a principal foundation of my Perimeter Defense! It also served to keep the back yard nicely shaded and cool.

Today, Landscapers have come and are busily chopping down my Defensive Perimeter to a level of 6 feet. The Honeysuckle had performed the agregious sin of becoming entangled in the electrical, phone and cable wires. For this the honeysuckle must be punished, lopped off, to sin no more. (Or become more controllable, at least.)

What is here to protect the Mulligan Compound, my 0.6 acres of Suburbia? Me gone, my secondary defenses gone, and Pennie shivering in the house from the sound of the chain saws.

Latest Dogster Quiz pertaining to backyard habits.

The latest dogster quiz queries as to whether the dog in the household EATS poop. Why yes, thank you, Pennie and I both ate poop, and I do hope that she is keeping up her end of the snacking now that I am gone.

What I do not understand is why humans find this so offensive. Once I became trained to use the backyard for my toileting needs, I no longer used the house.

Yet ALL of the humans, while they do not consume their excrement, lock themselves in a tiny room, and revel in the luxury of it's odor. In fact, if one of them leaves the door to the indoor backyard open, they are give a stern reminder to "shut the door!" as a reminder to revel in the fine luxury of that odor. Certain members of the family bring books, computers, or even phones into the indoor backyard, to further add to the pleasure of consuming that luscious odor.

Since, I, Mulligan, was forced to relieve myself outside and the odor rapidly dissipated, what choice did I have but to consume it, so that I could revel in it?

Forging Plans for Mulli

I am busy in my Urn forging plans for Robotic Mulligan. I do believe that I can put the Perfect Mul-Can Mind Meld on Little Lad to force him to build the Perfect Lego Robotic Mulligan that I desire. As an eight year old boy, Little Lad is not only EVIL, but Emotional, and Impressionable. He actually cries at the Swiffer Commercial. The commercial where the broom is left out standing in the rain, or sending flowers, or calling in to the radio station, wondering why his owner does not want the broom anymore because the owner has discovered the Swiffer. Little Lad throws wild raging Temper Storms. He in fact lost his door for a few weeks: he slammed it so much, that Dad took his bedroom door off as a lesson in the importance of not slamming items that may remove important appendages such as fingers. And of course, as a Human Boy, he is Evil.

So yes, I have the Perfect Candidate for a Mul-Can Mind Meld. I shall soon arise out of plastic pieces and the ether of programmable software to rule the Mulligan Compound again!

Robo Mulli

Little Lad and Middle Lad are attending Geek Camp, I mean Robotic Lego Camp, this week. This gives me the perfect idea, since my Mulli Clone order failed to go through due to the Wall Street Crash. I was planning to pay for my Mulli Clones with Mom and Dad's Merrill Lynch Savings, but alas, the accounts now sadly equal what they did before Mom and Dad married, not nearly enough to clone a Mulligan Army. Mom and Dad are only hoping now to save enough to not have to live in the basement once they retire, as they have no hopes that certain of the Lads will EVER be able to move out.

Anyhoo, I can come back as a Robotic Mulligan! Yes, indeed this very week Little Lad and an entire group of Evil Genius Eight Year Olds are learning how to build and program Robotic Animals.

We have the Lego Robotics Kit.

We have billions and billions of Legos in all shapes and sizes.

We have multiple computers; our own Mulligan Compound Network.

By the end of the week I fully expect Little Lad to have the knowledge to be able to start work on building a Robotic Mulligan. Middle Lad has taken these camps before and will be able to help. But the Evilness of the Eight Year Old Mind is Key.

Yes! I shall return! I may need a little silicone instead of Kibble, but I shall return!

What Mom says.

It has now been 10 weeks since my passing. Mom is still quite upset. She says she doesn't even look forward to going home anymore. She used to look forward to coming home to see my smile.

Mom's most favorite nickname for me was Mo.

This is what Mom says: She used to have a life of Misery and Mo. Now she just has a life of Misery and Woe.

Call if you are Dead

Today, in yet another one of those endless Malpractice Lawsuit Commercials, this was the actual quote:
"If you have suffered death during open heart surgery, Call!"

Now, everyone's favorite TV Ad Pitchman, Billy Mays, may have been overbearing and annoying. Personally, as a dog who was overbearing and annoying, I really admired him. I am sorry to see that he has passed and look forward to his commercials up in heaven.

And, never once, in any of his commercials, did he ever come up with some inane announcement, like "call if you are dead!"

Reality Dogster

Anyone who is unfortunate enough to listen to the news these days has undoubtedly heard of the gossip surrounding the Reality TV show: "Jon and Kate Plus Eight." It seems that all the Reality in the Gosselin family life has taken it's toll and doom and disaster have been following the peaceful family Gosselins like the storm of pupperazzi they attract.

That has gotten my giant Mulli-brain thinking. Are we Dogsters doomed? Some of our diary entries are more Reality based than others. Will this cause our families to fall apart? Will Pennie suddenly go and have a sordid affair with Chewie, the Hound Dog across the street, and it will be all Mom's fault because of Reality Dogster? Does the constant pawing of pupperazzi on Dad's car window, begging Dad for bits of Mulligan hair, drive him to distraction, so that he will have to divorce Mom? What of Little Lad? Will he succumb to an early drug habit, due to the ill effects of growing up with a Famous Reality Dog, Me, Mulligan?

And furthermore, where is all the money made from Reality Dogster? Pawsonally, I have NEVER received one bit of Kibble more for all my diary entries; I am sure Mom has squandered it all.

Perhaps some hope for Pennie?

I was so proud, it almost brings tears to my eyes. Dad had just prepared a delicious plate of lunch on the counter top. Leftovers from last night. Chicken and rice casserole with vegetables, onion and cheese mixed in. Not a "top notch" dinner entree, but it could not have been too bad because Oldest Lad called from the YMCA requesting someone bring him some leftovers for his lunch as well. Oldest Lad, a skillful manipulator (my training!,) may have just been buttering Mom up because he knew she was upset that he did not like the Enchiladas Mom made a couple of days ago. Dad LOVES the Enchiladas, and Mom was so hoping that Oldest Lad would like them; creating another simple dish that greater than two family members could agree upon.

As Mom's Soul Mate, I loved whatever food Mom made. Or bought. She did not even have to cook it first.

Anyhoo, Dad turned around to get a soda from the fridge, turned back, and in a CLASSIC MULLIGAN MANEUVER, let me repeat, A Classic Mulligan Maneuver; Pennie was standing up and had her full snout in Dad's plate, eating up Dad's lunch.

Oh, perhaps there is hope for Pennie after all. Maybe she is not such a good dog and her time with me did have some merit!

Oh, if I could only go.

Sometimes it just stinks to be dead! We received an invitation today addressed to Oldest Lad and Family. Of course Family would include Me, Mulligan. The Invitation is to a Graduation Party in honor of one of my most favorite Ladies. Oh, yes, the very same lady who once accused me of "trying to make out with her."

Oh, if I could only go. After clearing off the hors d'oevre table, I would head on up to Young Lady's bedroom. There I would lay upon her bed, forever embedding it with Mulligan hair, so that she would be forced to sleep with me forever, indeed taking some of me off to college with her.

Oh, well, Mom probably would not have let me go to the party anyway as I generally behaved badly at social gatherings involving food.

Words of Warning!

Oh, I am sure, oh, sure that this could not be true. Can I even contemplated this horrid thought?

First off, I just don't think Mom is well, she is just not that smart. I, Mulligan, was the obvious Mental Giant of the Mulligan Compound, followed by Little Lad, whom we are certain is the next Stalin in the making. Short of stature (Stalin was only 5 foot 4 inches, Little Lad's predicted final height), giving the obvious "short man's syndrome," and possessing a keen intellect, plus Little Lad already has that same attitude of Repression that Stalin had; but without the abusive parents. Mom and Dad prefer psychological torture to beatings and deprivations.

Second off, Mom was as obsessively in beloved adoration of me, as I was of her. Yes, she loves Dad as a husband, the human she wishes to share her life. But she loved me as "Her Dog."

Anyhoo, Mom went to the Doctor this past week. She had her cholesterol and other blood work drawn and peed in a cup, complaining once again how much easier it is for men to accomplish this necessary evil. Mom was pleased that, for the first time in several years, when she stepped on the scale, the nurse murmured to her an approving "good." Mom had not lost much, but indeed had lost since her last visit, although not enough for Oldest Lad to not still label her "fat."

I do wonder why in the Human doctor's office, as well as the Vet's office, the scale must be in the middle of the high traffic area so that ALL may see the abject humiliation of the animal species, canine or human, subjected to this device. At least at the Vet's office there is a dog biscuit waiting for the Good Dogs that stand upon the scale.

Mom realized that her weight loss could only be attributed to her abject grief and mourning in her loss of me, Mulligan. Dare I to think that MOM HERSELF DID ME IN?

Oh, Fellow Dogsters, take heed. If your humans have a wedding, or worse still a High School Reunion coming up listen to Mulligan's Words of Warning! Mom has no social life whatsoever and would never go to her high school reunion.

Still, it is ever so common that as a Dreaded upcoming Major Social Event is coming up, that a Human will suddenly embark upon a Major Weight Loss Program. Watch your backs Dogs! Don't let yourselves be "Done In" just a few weeks before that Reunion in a twisted attempt by your Human to lose a few pounds before seeing "that old flame, or flamess," or the person that used to stuff them into the locker.

I am certain that Mom did not do me in. No, our love was too pure and Mom has no social life, but that doesn't mean the same for Normal Humans!

Mulligan and Pennie's courtesy dog walking guide

Yes, I know, it seems truly against my nature to offer tips on courtesy. However, today, the defenses of the Mulligan Compound were breached! Pennie was right on it! Yes, that is against my nature as well, to compliment Pennie. Too much Cloud-Living, I suppose.

This nutty lady, who has walked by before displaying her general nuttiness, walked her Pug and her Golden Retriever right up into the 0.6 acres of the Mulligan Compound Suburban Front Yard! She completely bypassed the Six Foot "Courtesy Zone" and was practically to the front porch! At the same time, the Cable Man stopped by, and Pennie went out to Greet Him and Inform Him of Our Cable Problems. Mr. Cable Man was Courteous. He had his duly assigned photograph ID badge hanging about his neck, rang the bell politely, and gave a polite "Hello" greeting.

Pennie saw the agregious rudeness of this Nutty Lady and proceeded to inform Nutty Lady, by way of raised hair line, that she had best proceed OUT of the Mulligan Compound, and return to the Six Foot "Courtesy Zone." This Nutty Lad paid not attention!

Dad was most upset and proclaimed that if "something happened" he was not going to give this Nutty Lady any room for complaint for as a Grown Adult, she should Know Better than to bring her dogs so far into a yard. Then to just stand there and smirk when Pennie was clearly upset was Unforgiveable!

Mulligan and Pennie's Courtesy Dog Walking Guide

1. Six Foot Dog Leash: Keep your human on a six foot leash, no longer. This keeps your human on the sidewalk, or on the street, and allows the dog to investigate into the "Courtesy Zone." The "Courtesy Zone" is considered to be Six Feet plus the length of the human's pulled arm. The longer the Dog can pull, the longer the length of the "Courtesy Zone." By no means can this extend to the Front Porch of the house.

2. Some minor "Incursions" into the "Courtesy Zone" for a particularly good odor, are OK, but must be countered with a look of Embarrasment by the Human, followed by immediate return into the "Courtesy Zone." It is helpful if it makes the Human trip a little.

3. A dog and it's human are definitely out of the "Courtesy Zone" if:
a. The dog knows what the family is having for dinner, and is in fact eating the cast off vegetables given to it by one of the youngest family members.
b. The Human watches what the family is watching on TV, while the dog sniffs the yard.

4. If you want to snoop, then walk your human at 11:00 pm or later at night! Then you can sniff well inside the "courtesy zone" and your human can sniff out all the info they want about closet cleaning habits, wall-paper patterns, TV viewing, and other such things humans like to know about their neighbors.

Further Detioration in Standards at Mulligan Compound

I have been gone less than two weeks and life is deteriorating rapidly here at the Mulligan Compound.

Last night Mom accidentally left a Diaper Delight on the floor. Granted it was not an extremely Delectable Diaper Delight (number one only,) but still, a Diaper Delight is a Diaper Delight. Pennie left it unshredded and uneaten.

Little Lad left a box of Kellogg's Apple Jacks cereal on the kitchen table. Oh, I would have been all over that! I would have eaten the cereal, licked the tasty sugary remnant bursts, then consumed the inner lining bag. After that I would have shredded the box all over the carpet. Instead, Mom caught Wee Lass sitting on top of the kitchen table, her Wee hands inside the inner lining bag eating those last sugary bursts, and the box, quite intact, behind the Recliner Chair.

Yet another package arrived today. Pennie paid no notice; indeed practically invited the FedEx delivery person in to rub her head! I do believe that Mom, in her grief, has turned to shopping via the Internet, causing a great deal of package-deliveryness to the Mulligan Compound. In Pennie's defense, she still HATES the two neighbors that we both did not like, and barks at them double, to make up for me.

Mom has a nasty cold. No doubt in her Grief her immune system is down and it is a wonder if it does not turn to pneumonia. Pennie has not been giving Mom Compression Therapy! Pennie has been happy to plunge her tongue deep into Mom's sinuses to clean them out, but how can Mom heal properly without a 50 pound plus dog laying upon her, with the dog's warmth and naturally humidified Healing Vapors? Pennie calls herself "Nurse Pennie" but really she must give Mom Compression Therapy, as I would surely do!

Oh, I fear, yes I fear for the standards here at the Mulligan Compound. I even hear murmurs that Pennie is attempting to call it the Pennie Complex. Hmmph. Little Lad himself requested that it continue to be called the Mulligan Compound.

Mother's day

I continue to worry here at the bridge. I have been duly informed that I am supposed to be enjoying myself. How can I, Mulligan, relax? I never relaxed on Earth, so how can I relax here? Pennie would probably be happy to inform you that my stress and anxiety led to my untimely demise.

Honey is kind enough to share a cloud with me and to try her best to calm me down. She has however complained that I snore. I must protest. Mom LOVED my snoring. Yes. Dad snores. Pennie snores. Many nights after telling Dad to "turn over" countless times, Mom would retreat down to the couch, and of course I would follow. Last night Dad was snoring up a real Hurricane. Mom left for the couch. Alas, Pennie stayed with Dad. That is completely against protocol! I never let Mom retreat to the couch without following her.

Thank Dog this Mulligan Compound house is built of bricks because the snoring of Dad and Pennie would surely cause a wooden structure to eventually loosen and collapse. I do wish I had had time to install the hurricane straps before I passed, to make sure the snoring would not cause the house to slide.

Mom said that I had a gentle snoring that belied my egotistical wakeful demeanor.

Mom misses me most especially on this Mother's Day. Instead of spending the day with Me; she is working with Little Lad on a poster. Pennie had to walk all over the poster for me. Usually both of us walk on any projects. I am quite certain that I did manage to get some of my dog hair embedded in the mask that Little Lad made as part of his project.

Integrity of the Mulligan Compound

I fear greatly, now that I am gone, for the Integrity of the Mulligan Compound. Oh, Pennie is kind and nurturing, but she just doesn't run the place like I do, or did.

Since I left on Monday, Four, yes, 4, large boxes have been received via Fed Ex or UPS. Not one has been inspected for drugs, weapons of mass destruction, nuclear waste, or improvised explosive devises.

No one has gone through Mom's purse. I ALWAYS went through Mom's purse. It was particularly important to search out and, with NO regard for my own personal safety, find and chew up any gum she might have. For dog's sake, that gum could easily be plastique, posing as gum, ready to blow up the mini-van at any moment. Mom took to hiding the gum in the glove box. By the way, Dad, that is how all the scratches appeared on the glove box. I sniffed out that gum in the glove box and of course Mom's mere act of hiding it further added to my suspicion that it must be plastique. Alas, I did not thoroughly trust Mom. What better way to hide as a fiend? Room Mom. Computer Lab Volunteer. All great covers.

Then there were the Mulligan Mental Exercises. As the human brain ages, it has been shown that increased mental stimulation can actually help defeat some of the natural decrease in function. Therefore I developed my Mulligan Mental Exercises, MME, to keep Mom's brain functioning.

Mom would prepare lunch for Little Lad, bagels with cinnamon. While Mom was, oh say, pouring Little Lad some milk, I would eat the bagels and completely lick the plate clean. Mom would come back and wonder: "Did I make Little Lad's lunch? Hmm."

I would hide one of Mom's shoes. Much like a crossword puzzle stimulates the human mind as they think of the answer to the clue; Mom would have to search through the house, thinking: "Where did Mulligan hide my shoe today?" This also helped raise Mom's adrenalin level, as of course she would not discover she was missing a shoe until it was time to leave, and now she had to go hunt for her shoe first. And of course, don't forget balance, as Mom traipsed through the house wearing just the one shoe.

Mental Calculation: How much bread to buy? I was THE best at stealing loaves of bread. This MME was aimed at getting Mom to use her math skills as she had to calculate how much bread the family would use versus how much bread I would steal, and then figure out how much bread to purchase.

Yes, I fear greatly that Pennie will simply not be able to keep the Mulligan Compound up to my standards. MulliFit, Mulli Ab Machine, my Healing Vapors, my MME, searching ALL that came into the house, and more, is a lot to heap on Pennie's shoulders.

Thank you for all the support.

Mom and the rest of the Mulligan Compound wish to thank all the Pups and their Peeps for all the kind words of sympathy, prayers, and support as the Mulligan Compound deals with my untimely passing.

Mom has been checking dogster faithfully but she has not felt much inspiration to write. She does appreciate all of you, as only dog pawrents can truly understand how suddenly empty the house feels when the dog is gone. Oh, yes, thankfully there is still Pennie, but Dad comes and goes throughout the day, the Lads come and go from their school and activities, but I, Mulligan, was always there at home, to greet Mom and to help her with her daily jobs.

Oldest Lad describes the following scene: He caught Mom several times out driving the mini-van, with Me, Mulligan, sitting in the passenger seat. Mom would have her arm out, around me, or scratching my head. Mom would be talking to me. I would be intently looking at her, listening to her; we were obviously soul-mates.

Goodbye

I unexpectedly went off to the Rainbow Bridge today.
My family is terribly upset and grieving.

Thank you to all the fans who have read my tales of the Mulligan Compound. My sister, Pennie, also has a diary. I did not allow her much access to the computer, but perhaps now that I am gone she shall become more vocal.

I don't know how Mom shall survive without me to direct the happenings at the Mulligan Compound. Now that I am gone, I suppose I can admit that I had even become rather fond of the Wee Lass. Little Lad and Middle Lad shall never get their homework and piano practice done without my instinctual herding ability and natural ability to sing on key. Oldest Lad just went through another knee surgery. How he will recuperate without me laying upon his leg is beyond what I can consider.

Goodbye. Perhaps I shall write again soon, but I believe that some tears need to be shed and Pennie will have to clean up a multitude of kleenex before that happens.

Protecting the Mulligan Compound Fertile Crescent!

As Spring hits the Ohio Valley, the lawn at the Mulligan Compound is erupting, lush and full, thanks to the hard work of me, I do have to give some credit to Pennie.

Mom refuses to allow any pesticides or chemical fertilizing enhancements to the lawn. This is for concern to both the denizens of the Mulligan Compound and the Miami Valley Watershed.

Indeed I am now very worried. I eat a scientifically fortified kibble of Iams in the Red Bag. It is stocked full of Minerals: Manganese. Magnesium. Iron. I supplement my diet with a wide range of products, including Aluminum from candy wrappers and grill pans. All these precious minerals end up in my yard, in the complex organic and inorganic material that makes up the Mulligan Compound.

This world has a long history of fighting over precious minerals. Spain came to South America, wiped out and conquered much of their indigenous populations, all over Gold. The British Empire found that their tiny island did not have enough resources and simply invaded other countries, creating a huge empire to supply their constant craving. Japan went to war with the United States because the United States objected to the Japanese taking over countries for their raw materials, especially oil. I, Mulligan, wonder, though, how it is that Great Britain objected to Japan taking over other countries for raw materials, but apparently times had changed and it was no longer fashionable.

Anyhoo, how soon until the Mulligan Compound itself is threatened with a Takeover Attempt! I do all that I can with constant border surveillance and brute force but history itself tells me that I must be prepared!

Hurry to the nearest Shelter for latest fitness craze!

I, Mulligan, have invented the latest Fitness Craze. On TV, one always sees commercials for the Ab Blaster, the Ab Cruncher, the Ab Intimidator, the "trim your thighs and abs in only 3 minutes per day! all in one Ab Excising Knife machine."

These commercials all show a handsome human male with six-pack ABs who went from a BMI of 75 to a BMI of 23 in just 6 easy weeks, with no dieting. His beatiful, bikini clad, low IQ Female counterpart, went from a BMI of 67 to a BMI of 12 in just 5 easy weeks, while still consuming all the chocolate she desired.

I have invented the: Mulli Ab Machine.

It's very simple. Obtain one 53 (or greater) pound shelter dog, the worse disposition the better, as that will lessen the desire to remove the Mulli Ab Machine.

Go to sleep with the Mulli Ab Machine laying across one's abdominals, all night long.

I do this for Mom all the time. She sleeps, and I lay across her abdomen. This is how it works: The weight of the Mulli Ab increases the strength needed to breathe. All night long, the abdominal muscles are gently strengthened as they work harder than normal to breathe. This also gives the lungs a harder workout as they must work harder to expand fully while being crushed under the weight of the Mulli Ab. Meanwhile, the soothing body heat of the Mulli Ab naturally begins to melt the fat layer underneath the skin, like margarine in a fry pan.

Hurry! Usually the largest dogs are the last to leave the Shelter, but with my new Mulli Ab invention, I foresee people running to the closest shelter to get the largest, most intractable dog they can find.

Mom: "Wait just a minute, Mulligan! This is totally bogus! Yes, you spend many a night sleeping ON ME, but I certainly have not lost any weight in the 3 plus years you have lived here! As point of fact, I have gained weight -- surely from all the STRESS over-eating I do just from the added anxiety you, Mulligan, bring to my life. For dog's sake, Mulligan, a dog is supposed to "add" to the value of a person's life, not give them constant heartburn! And that's not possible, to gently melt away body fat, like margarine."

Mulligan: Well, Mom, you know there is always a disclaimer with any fitness products that "these results are not typical, and the individual results may vary." Maybe you just need to work harder. Walk me more, and then let me sleep on top of you more.

Mulligan, Partisan

I found myself trapped last night, forced into prison, and in the spirit of all Partisan fighters, I fought to free myself.

Really, it's not my fault. Mom and Dad, true geeks that they are, are quite overly obsessed with history. Mom in fact received "The World at War," the authentic 1974 historic 26 episode saga of World War II, narrated by Sir Laurence Olivier himself. I am constantly barraged by TV dramatic or historic footage of war, prison, and weaponry.

Last night Dad invited several of his male friends over for Poker in the Second Garage. Several of the wives of these male friends, not to be outdone, decide that if their "Man" had a night off for frivolity, then it was a perfect time to offload their offspring at the Mulligan Compound as well. Mom found herself in the unfortunate position of nightcare provider for these offspring, while the Men entertained themselves in the garage.

There was a constant stream of: Men coming into the house to use the Indoor Backyard (why they could not use the Outdoor Backyard facilities is beyond me,) children running amok, children consuming hamburgers and other asundries, and general random chaos.

Dad decided that I, Mulligan, should be imprisoned in the bedroom. That is how it is ALL DADs Fault. Like any fine Partisan, Prisoner, or Political Detaineee, I decided to: Tunnel My Way Out. When Dad came up to bed (Mom had fallen asleep on the couch after the last extra child left) he discovered that I had dug away most of the carpet around the door to the bedroom. Just a few more hours and I am certain that I would have been able to compress my impressive body underneath the door and On to Freedom!

just can't get good help these days

I, Mulligan, am quite obviously the Alpha of the Mulligan Compound. As such, the rest of the family are therefore my Political Appointees. As the Alpha, and with a deep understanding of the Political Process, I have CHOSEN to allow Mom to exercise great control over the comings and goings of the Mulligan Compound. Her usefulness to me outweighs the agregious breaches of accountability to propriety that she displays. Indeed, I have let Mom overstep her bounds by allowing the Wee Lass into the Mulligan Compound. Like any good Political Leader, I have considered what is good for the Compound as a whole, as well, thus allowing Pennie, with her nurturing Nannie skills to maintain residency here, despite her obvious annoyance to me.

I have studied Josef Stalin profusely, and he is my role model, yet I realize that I must learn from his mistakes and my great desire to purge the Mulligan Compound of those with whom I disagree may prove to be my downfall. Case in point: Stalin purged his Army of all it's Generals and leadership, down to Unit Leadership positions during the 1930s, thus making it rather diffucult to find adequate experienced professionals when Hitler struck in the early 1940s. In fact, Stalin may have initially made his Pact with Hitler, knowing full well that Hitler would stab him in the back, (or the steppes) as a means to cultivate his Army, buying time, post Army Purge.

Anyhoo, as such, I find it most disturbing that Mom expects me at times to move from where I am most comfortably sleeping to lay next to her, or to lay upon her lap. This morning, after Dad left the bed, I rearranged myself. Oh, that was not good enough for Mom. She pulled me closer. Then she started to rub my head, just in front of my ear, in the exact place that I like. Should this be allowed? Oh sure, I love to have my head rubbed in that exact way, but as MY Political Appointee, what gives Mom the right to pull me over from my Chosen Spot? Doesn't this overstep her bounds?

I believe that I am going to have to spend the day reminding Mom of where her boundaries lie, and that she too, serves at MY discretion.

Dogsitting Pupdate

The neighbors returned home and both dogs were breathing and the hamster was still in it's cage, unconsumed.

How long post-dog sitting can Mom and Dad be held accountable if any untoward event occurs?

Mom thinks she should make up a Dog-sitting Disclaimer Form, much like the Public Schools do at the beginning of each school year: I, undersigned parent and/or guardian of said minor vow not to hold legally accountable this tax-payer funded school district if said minor turns out to be a Darwinistic Liberal.

Only Mom's form would say something like: I, the duly undersigned person of the said dog, do vow not to hold Mom responsible if this dog succumbs to death by natural or unnatural causes during Mom's tenure as dog-sitter. I do understand that Mom does have a history of accidental death and or dismemberment of dogs left under her care.

Dogsitting Distress

Mom and Dad are undergoing severe stress this weekend as they Dogsit for neighbors. Mom and Dad have taken firm, resolute vows, to never, ever, not on anyone's life to ever dog sit again. Yet, somehow, they became roped in. It was one of those, oh, our sitter cancelled, and our one dog is so old she cannot possible stay at a kennel, and Mom is sick to her stomach with worry now and will undoubtedly get a horrible five day migraine.

This deep aversion to dogsitting began some 12 years ago, before Little Lad was even a large check in the Specialist's wallet. Mom and Dad were asked to dog sit for a dog wrongly given the name: "Serene." Serene was anything but calm (or pleasant.) Serene began to run away the instant that she began her stay at Mom and Dad's home.

Mom was in bed with a migraine. Serene was let into the fenced back yard (old house, not the Mulligan Compound, the Samson Compound.) She hopped the fence. Dad left Middle Lad, who was but a toddler, inside the house to chase Serene. Middle Lad took that opportunity to display his new found skill of climbing, and perched himself upon the kitchen table. There Middle Lad found an almost empty glass, with just a few remaining drops, of MILK. Dad returned home, breathless, with Serene. Dad found Middle Lad upon the table and put Middle Lad in the corner for a time out as punishment. As Dad was holding the crying Middle Lad, he realized that Middle Lad was getting LARGER. Hmm. Even Dad could figure out something was not right. No child should grow that fast. Middle Lad was at that time severely allergic to milk and was rapidly becoming the size of one of the balloons that are flown at the Macy's parade. Mom was roused and emergency help was found for Middle Lad.

Pity, in these economic times, the money made from flying Middle Lad in parades could have been quite useful.

Conveniently, Dad then left for several days. Serene continued to run away every time a door at the Samson Compound was opened. Until her last attempt. Mom still remembers the call to Dad at midnight.
Dad: "Middle Lad had another food reaction."
Mom: "No."
Dad: "Oldest Lad broke something."
Mom: "No."
Dad: "Serene ran away and got hit by a car."
Mom: "Yes."

Serene survived. In fact, she was a much nicer dog after recovering from her near-fatal head injury.

Dog sitting saga two.

The family now lived in the Pre-Mulligan Compound. Another set of neighbors requested dog-sitting services. Mom said "NO!" but Oldest Lad had already accepted the key and had gleaming dollar signs in his teenage eyes. The week seemed to go well. Oldest Lad played daily with the dog, Sydney, until the last, when he came home and made the strange comment: "Sydney is awfully lazy today." Mom and Dad probed for further details. "Well, how lazy, do you mean by lazy?," as panic began to fill their minds. Dad went to the neighbors house, and well, a dog very near death is well, pretty darn lazy. Dad rushed poor Sydney off to the Emergency Vet Clinic. The prognosis was grim. Poor old Sydney had a very large liver mass that had suddenly burst. The vet attempted to keep Sydney alive until the owners returned home, but she eventually succumbed.

Mom, Dad, and Oldest Lad were forlorn and in tears. Mom vowed NEVER, EVER to dog sit again.

Now, this weekend. Oh, Mom is certain that this is actually a fiendish plot by these neighbors to "do in" their old dog. Yes, their Old Dog has been "on the verge" now for nigh on a year. Mom is certain that the owners simply cannot face the thought of actually taking the poor dog to the vet themselves, so came up with this plot of having Mom and Dad dogsit. Yes, with full knowledge of Mom and Dad's dogsitting history, Mom is certain that these neighbors think this is the easy way out. The neighbors will come home to some dogsitting tragedy brought on simply by having Mom and Dad dogsit. Then instead of having to explain to their children about how they had to take the dog to the vet for euthanasia, it can all be blamed upon Mom and Dad. All that is left is of course the details of what shall happen.

Where is my Clone Order?

Dogster has a Poll, going on right now, about Dog Cloning. Well. Months ago, I, Mulligan, placed a very large Clone Order, as my Diary Readers should recall.

Unfortunately, the economy then tanked, and Mom and Dad's Portfolio went into the Sewer, down to the Ohio River, on to the Mississippi, and probably is out in the Gulf of Mexico by now. Apparently, that was enough to block my order.

The following is the call that I made, many months ago:

bee bee bee beep bee bee beep beep beep beep beep

"Hello, thank you for calling Dial-a-Clone, how may I direct your call?"

Mulligan: "This is Mr. Mulligan, I'd like to order clones of my dog."

Dial-A-Clone: "Why certainly, Mr. Mulligan, I'll need a few samples of skin from your dog."

Mulligan: "Uh, will it hurt?"

Dial-A-Clone: "It's a very minor procedure, Mr. Mulligan, perhaps you can get them while your dog is sleeping. We will send you a special shipping envelope to put them in. How many clones will you be ordering?"

Mulligan: "One Thousand. Frozen Embryos"

Dial-A-Clone: "That's quite a large order, Mr. Mulligan. Do you have suitable Surrogates to incubate these clones?"

Mulligan: "Um, yes, I will keep them frozen and just thaw them as needed."

Dial-A-Clone: "How will you be paying for your order today?"

Mulligan: "Take it directly from my online Merrill Lynch Account. I have liquidated all my stocks, bonds and assets into cash. Here is the account number, 555-55555. Oh, don't be fooled by the different name on the account, Mulligan is my nickname."

Dial-A-Clone: "Thank you Mr. Mulligan, it has been a pleasure doing business with you. Your order will be arriving via Federal Express two weeks after we receive the skin sample from your dog."

There, my plan is proceeding nicely. Dad won't know the Merrill Lynch Account is gone until it is too late. Mom warned him against on-line access and internet safety. I can't use Pennie to incubate my Mulligan's Army because she was neutered before she arrived here. But Mom, yes, Mom can incubate the Pups. Mom doesn't believe in Abortion. While she is sleeping, I shall put my first Platoon of Mulligan's Army into her Womb. When she begins to feel the first wriggles of tiny paws inside her belly she will think the doctors were wrong and she really can have more children. Puppies don't take as long to incubate as humans. Won't Mom be surprised when just a few months into her pregnancy she gives birth to a cute little Platoon of Mulligans. Oh, but it won't be cute for long. Soon there will be more Mulligans. One Thousand Mulligan Sociopaths! The World will belong to Mulligan!

Ashamed of myself.

On Friday I spent the whole day lusting after Pie. Oh, the smell of two cherry pies, and coffee cakes to beat, wafting from the kitchen was driving me into a frothing frenzy. Yet I continually found myself stuck behind of all things: a "baby" gate. I never slept. To make matters worse, the basement was filled with Mallard Patrol food for Middle Lad's Boy Scout camping weekend. On several occasions I managed to accompany Mom down to the basement and make my way to the Mallard Food, only to have Mom's sonar Mom ears detect the faint crinkling of plastic bag as I attempted to delve into the plunder.

I tried everything to make the gate open. Two separate times Mom miraculously discovered a "Mulligan" inside the kitchen. Once, I had my lips only millimeters from the crust of a cherry pie. Apparently, if a dog bangs against the baby gate enough times, the latch will sometimes release of it's own accord. I have taken immediate note of this.

By late afternoon my eyes were bloodshot with fatigue and hunger, yet my resolve continued.

Just as I made my discovery that if a dog bangs against the gate enough times, the latch will release on it's own, the Cherry Pies walked out of the kitchen! Yes! The pies and the coffee cakes and the Mallard Food all walked out of the kitchen and the basement and were loaded into the van, off to become carnival donations, and Boy Scout food, never to be seen again!

Soon the house was empty, of people, and pies. Mom was off with Oldest Lad to buy a Component. Yes. A Component. They went to Eddie Bauer and Oldest Lad convinced Mom to purchase for him two Components of the "365 Weather System." Hmm. Thank Dog my fur is all season and good day and night because to me, these special "Components" looked like a Green Spring Jacket and a Fleece insert. Mom received a "Component" as a gift for Christmas, and here I just thought how nice it was that she had a mahogany colored rain jacket for dog walking. How was I to know she really would be walking me in a mahogany Component?

When Mom returned with Oldest Lad, she had some Used Goldfish. Used Goldfish. Dad had Wee Lass Coverage for the evening and Wee Lass had Goldfish (thank Dog for Pepperidge Farm) for a snack. Mom felt like Wee Lass' sticky fingers had delved into the Rubbermaid throw and go container enough that she did not wish to "save" the remaining Goldfish.

Mom threw all the Goldfish out into the yard for me to snack upon. Greedily I munched upon these Pepperidge Farm fish of the deep ocean realms.

Then I came inside, and in my sheer exhaustion, licked Mom profusely, and laid upon her lap and feel asleep. What about holding a grudge? A few measly Goldfish and all is forgiven after the wafting of cinnamon coffee cake and cherry pie for an entire day? What kind of dog am I to so readily forgive Mom? At least Pennie is able to hold a grudge and remain angry for several days, even a week or two.

I am ashamed of myself to be bought so easily. It must have been the haze of exhaustion.

Exhausted.

I am completedly exhausted. Worn out.

At 8:47 am this morning Mom turned the ovens on. Soon the Mulligan Compound was filled with the cinnamony goodness of baking coffee cake. Shortly thereafter, the air inside of the Mulligan Compound was freshened by the permeating odor of baking cherry pie.

Must.

Have.

Pie.

I found myself relegated to the foyer and living room sections of the house. Oh, what a cruel, evil woman! And here, I thought that on this, the 19th anniversary of the death of Mom's Mother, that Mom and I could perhaps spend the day together, watching a movie, sharing a pie, or two or three, yet I was gated out from all family activity. Alienated. An outcast.

I focused instead on the stash of Boy Scout Patrol Food in the basement. Middle Lad is camping this weekend and it is his turn to purchase the food for the Mallard Patrol. The Mulligan Compound basement is brimming with hot dogs and ramen noodles and buns and I was determined that if I could not have Pie that I would get that Mallard Food.

No. Mom foiled my plot. One lonely cup of kibble was all the ration I had all day, to keep me going during my desperate watch of the gate in the faint hopes that somehow, someone would leave the gate unlatched.

I got close once. Dad left the gate unlatched and Mom caught me with my lips and tongue mere millimeters from a cherry pie. Are ALL women so cruel and evil or my Mom particularly so?

Historical Mutt

From the very old photo discovered of my mothers family, it is apparent that I have been part of the family for a VERY long time. Now I have made the discovery that my roots go back even further!

Mom has been watching a showing on the A&E channel called "Irish in America." It is a several part series, tracing the path of the Irish from Ireland to America.

It seems the Irish were a rather contentious lot, and a disproportionate number of Irish were part of the Patriot Army fighting against the British Redcoats. Seems that the recently immigrated Irish were only too happy to take up arms against the British, whom they already hated, and made up a very large portion of the first American fighting forces.

Anyhoo, Mom's family has been able to trace their earliest Irish roots in America to around the 1840s. During the early to mid 1800s the Irish were fleeing to America by the boatload, or rather the Coffin Ship, as they were called. Hunger can be quite a motivator!

On the TV show, in a picture of a large group of Irish, who do you think was sitting? Yes, me, Mulligan. It is unclear exactly when the photo was taken, but must have been at the very beginning of the invention of photography.

I looked rather thin. I suppose famine will do that to a dog.

I can surmise some important information from this Historic Photo:

1. Obviously my name, Mulligan, comes from my Irish roots.

2. My steadfast defense of the Mulligan Compound must stem from my inherent hatred of the Repressive British Rule. I view interlopers to the Mulligan Compound as tyrannists anxious to seize my land. Yes, the United States and Great Britain have put aside their differences and are now great friends. However, in the majority of countries, long-standing differences are NEVER put aside, so I feel quite justified in maintaining my animosity and must view all who cross my path as potential enemies.

Mulligan's Plan

I have been most disturbed, distressed even, over the state of the economy. It worries me greatly that the Mulligan Compound, my 0.67 acres of Suburbia, may be worth less than it's duly mortgaged value. I am vastly tired of Dad reporting to Mom the back-sliding of our portfolio. For Dog's sake, I have been eating dry kibble, and for all these years, I might as well have been eating canned!

The government has come up with an economic recovery program, and with the Goverment's penchance for acronyms have given it the name: TARP. This stands for: Toxic Asset Relief Program.

Well, I, Mulligan, have decided to come up with my own economic recovery program: CARP. Canine Assest Recovery Program. (Or you can call it CRAP, Canine Recovery of Assests Program, depending on your mood.)

AIG. Now I am certain that those well deserving executives NEED those bonuses that fine tax-paying citizens whose portfolios have now dropped into the toilet, have provided to those executives. However, the government is not certain of the legality of getting those bonuses back.

Under CARP, I, Mulligan, and any other dogs that wish to join me, will simply go to the houses of the AIG executives who received those bonuses and "encourage" them to give the bonus back. Congress has already requested a subpoena of the names of the executives. Using property search, I can determine where they live. I am certain that Pennie, with her endearing smile, and I, with my gleaming mouth, can persuade the executives to voluntarily hand over the full bonus, if not a little extra.

Bernie Madoff. Mr. Madoff went to prison without disclosing his cohorts and where all the money went. Now he does have rather a large head, but I doubt that large head has a big enough brain to have completed such a huge scheme on his own.

Under CARP, let me go and visit him in his jail cell, for just one hour. Oh, this would not be waterboarding. This would not be torture. I am just a poor, shelter dog, turned "Pet Therapist." Yes, let me go visit Mr. Madoff and he and I will spend some time doing "Pet Therapy." I am certain that after just one hour with me, Mr. Madoff will confess to all of his cohorts, the complete paper trail, and where any money may be hidden.

I am certain that CARP will prove to be a valuable addition to the government's TARP. That's me, Mulligan, always here to help out.

Pupdate: Thus far, Bodhi and all his family as well as Jasper are on Board and ready to implement CARP! And Bodhi is a Pit Bull!

Never Assume

Oh.
I thought you cut the sandwich in half so that I could have half and you could have half.
So Sorry, Mom. I did not realize that we weren't going "halvies."

Thin Mint Thievery, Shortbread Heist!

Yesterday afternoon Oldest Lad stopped by the Mulligan Compound, presumably to retrieve his camouflage gear and paintball supplies for a dormitory outing of maiming and killing prior to exam week.

He brought along a Lady Friend. Along about the same time, another Lady Friend showed up. Both of these Ladies had lovely locks of Red. Mom also has Red Hair (what hasn't yet turned gray, that is.) My keen Mulli senses were immediately raised to Full Alert Mode. THREE RED HEADS at the Mulligan Compound! Would Critical Mass occur? I was treading very lightly and indeed hoping that Oldest Lad would not say anything to Mom (as he tends to do) that might spark off an explosion causing a sustainable red-head fusion reaction due to the sheer number of red-heads in the room!

While all this was going on, yet another Girl Scout cookie delivery occured. I have yet to figure how the Boy Scouts can continue to even think of themselves as "Male," considering that they managed to let the Girl Scouts get the Cooking Selling Contract Monopoly. Boy Scout Popcorn is delish, but who can resist a Thin Mint?

This Girl Scout dropped off two boxes of Thin Mints and a box of Shortbread. Yes. I am absolutely sure of it.

Eventually, Mom came and went, delivering Little Lad to and from piano. One of the Red Heads finished her visit and left of her own accord, I mean Lexus. Then Oldest Lad and the Original Lady Friend Left.

I, Mulligan, was finally able to let down from Mulli-Con Full Threat Mode due to all those red heads. That is when I realized: Only one box of Thin Mints was left! Oh, sure, I may have saved the Mulligan Compound from imminent destruction but where did my cookies go?

Tax-Payer Funded Schools Rewriting the Constitution

The Little Lad attends a tax-payer funded Public Institution of Lower Learning, an Elementary School. With No Regard for the Actual Verbage of THE Highest Document in the Land, this is "Right to Read" Week, or even perhaps Right to Read Month.

Now, I, Mulligan, am all for Reading. I enjoy when the Lads read, especially as this is generally a Solitary activity and does NOT involve them having any of their pestiferous friends invading the Mulligan Compound.

However, I read no where in the Constitution that Americans actually have a RIGHT to Read.

Oh, there is the right to Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness. Life, so that the citizen can work and pay taxes to the government to keep the government large and happy. In fact, the citizens even have the right to Death, because then the government has yet another chance to collect taxes.
Liberty, so that all those huge mega entertainment Magic Kingdoms and Amusement parks can stay in business and charge exhorbitant prices for people to have the liberty to stand in line. Of course Liberty is not so great for us dogs as during Liberty we dogs usually end up at the kennel.
Pursuit of Happiness: Happiness is held out in front of the citizens like the fake rabbit held out just out of reach of the grayhounds at dog race. I do wonder what happens to depressed people. Must depressed people move? To say Iceland, or Norway, where it is more appropriate to be depressed? What about temporary depression, like Post Partum Depression? Somehow I think the Founding Fathers would allow for Post Partum Depression because "'90s" style Dads did not exist for 200 years after the Constitution was written and I just can't see those Constitution writers running home to change diapers and nurse, while their wives went off to Norway.

Then there are other rights: The contentious Right to Bear Arms. Personally I like the Right to Bear Arms. Hands are on the ends of Arms. Hands are great for making cookies, and scooping kibble, and scratching that itch right behind my left ear.

There is the right to go to Church, like Pennie did once, when she escaped the mini-van, or to stay home and be lazy all Sunday morning watching the Political Pundits, like Dad does.

OK, but No Where do I Read that there is an Actual Right to READ! Where is the National Guard? Where is the Coast Guard parking battle ships on the Ohio River? Isn't anyone going to DO something about this school over-stepping it's bounds and grabbing RIGHTS!

One Small Word from ManKind, One Giant Leap for MulliKind

I, Mulligan, have once again achieved my rightful position, that of the Alpha Position at the Mulligan Compound, leaping over Dad.

The Wee Lass arrived here at the Mulligan Compound with a great deal to day. However, considering her great journey, it was all in: "Spanish Toddler."

I greatly admire the Wee Lass for her intelligence at assessing the political situation for her first word was by far the most important: "MaMa."

Of course, Mom has nothing to do with my role as the Alpha. In her very Momliness, Mom is an entity unto herself. All at the Mulligan Compound have learned to live in abject terror of her and at the same time abject love of her momly ways, oh, those home baked cookies, the broccoli cheese rice casserole, and her ability to perfectly pack a boy scout camp bag. I have no desire to take over Mom's role. I would be happy to change diapers (yum, diaper delights!), give baths, and pack lunches. Unfortunately, I am far from nurturing, and instead of offering encouragement over homework I would most certainly growl and bark, and any tears would just be met with a bite to the closest body part.

Anyhoo, I, Mulligan, do not often care to admit it, but I have many nicknames. Due to the nature of my overbearing personality, most are not fit to print. The current family favorite is: "MO."

Well, well, what could possibly be the Second Name that the Wee Lass has learned to utter: Oh, would that be "DaDa?" NO!

Nope! Put me, Mulligan, back in the Alpha Position! Yes, the Second Name that the Wee Lass has learned to utter clearly is: "MO!"

And there is no denying it. It has happened more than once, while I have been right there, next to her.

TV NOT Worth Watching

My Mom leaves me in a great state of worriedness at all times. One of her fiendish modes of manipulating the fears of the members of Mulligan Compound is simply through her choice of TV shows. One of Mom's favorite shows to watch is "Snapped." "Snapped" is a show about Women who "SNAP" and kill off their husband, lover, or other significant other. I am certain that Mom is carefully watching and learning from all these shows so she will eventually discover the penultimate way to do in the members of the Mulligan Compound. Or perhaps she is just trying to keep us "on our toes" with this ever looming threat that she now has these methods stored somewhere in her female brain. Now that the economy has smashed into the sewer, I suppose the Mulligan Compound can feel a little less worried, as any money motive to do us in has gone, along with all our investments.

If "Snapped" was not bad enough, today Mom forced me to watch "Untold Stories of the ER." In this episode, a woman comes into the ER thrashing and writhing about, in a complete state of mania. Her chief complaint is of a helicopter in her ear. Oh, I, Mulligan, knew that I must run and hide, must turn away my head, but no, I stayed fixed and watched as the Ear Doctor looked into this woman's ear and discovered a: Live June Bug!

Oh, it was hideous, one could see it buzzing and thrashing and flailing it's wings inside this poor woman's ear.

Now, I, Mulligan, am blessed with HUGE EARS. A Jumbo Jet could easily land inside one of my ear canals. A Bat could fly into my ear. An entire colony of wasps could build a nest inside my ear.

How could I be tortured so! I can not stop thinking about what hideous creatures may invade my luxurious, supple ears, and become denizens of my ear canals!

Oh dear. It just occured to me. With all the money gone, there is NO Motive, and from watching all those "Snapped" shows, I do know that motive is very important. Mom might think this the perfect time to do us in as the police would look elsewhere.

I am sleeping with my paws tight over my ears and my eyes open!

Threat Condition: Mulli-Con Two!

Mom made a sandwich. A salami and muenster cheese sandwich on a hamburger bun. She turned to put the ingredients away, turned back and the Sandwich Lid was gone! Completely Gone!

I was in the kitchen the whole time, standing guard over Mom's sandwhich making. Yes, the Sandwich Lid, right from under my very lips, er Nose, was gone!

There must be an Intruder at the Mulligan Compound!

The Threat Condition at the Mulligan Compound has been raised to Mulli-Con Two!

Awful Realization

I have made an Awful Realization. Oh, for the last several weeks, like Manna from Heaven, boxes of luscious Girl Scout Cookies have been appearing at the Mulligan Compound.

I, Mulligan, have been forced, with no prior consultation, to have the Wee Lass thrust upon me. Ah, my giant Mulli-brain thinks, someday, yes, someday, the Wee Lass will herself be a bearer of Girl Scout Cookies. This could make up in some small part for the great sacrifice that I have made, and continue to make, by having the Wee Lass in my life. The Mulligan Compound itself will be a haven of Girl Scout Cookies. Great crates of cookies stowed in every corner, in the attempt to fund raise for that great icon of American Spirit, the Girl Scouts.

But, but, I, Mulligan, am already at least six years of age, if not more, as it is unknown how old I am. I was found in such a destitute state, feverish and racked with malnutrition, that I have never been able to recall events prior to my discovery.

Therefore, if I am already SIX, it is: highly unlikely that I, Mulligan, shall live to see the Mulligan Compound filled with Girl Scout Cookie Manna. No. I shall probably succumb prior to the Wee Lass being old enough to sell Girl Scout Cookies.

Being Used

I believe that I, Mulligan, am being used. Yes. As a Chick Magnet. Pennie and the Wee Lass, too.

Today, about 3:15, Oldest Lad appeared at the door. He came to retrieve his XBOX 360 which had been sent off for repairs and had just returned. He was quite certain that Mom was NOT going to run it up to Campus for him, as he had informed her that despite her Wii Fit age being "younger," she certainly LOOKED OLD. Nope, Oldest Lad should not expect any favors from Mom any time soon.

Accompanying Oldest Lad (and driving, as Oldest Lad's vehicle was recalled just prior to the start of college) was yet another Lovely Lady. This Lovely Lady was quite impressed with Me, Pennie, and the Wee Lass. I, Mulligan, of course had to put on my best Debonair, Flirtatious Manners for this Lovely Lady. Hey, I don't care if ultimately she ends up on the arm of Oldest Lad, if I get me some Lovin' in the process, then I am goin' for it!

Reverting to 1996 levels.

The Dow and the S&P Indices both set record lows yesterday, the Dow falling to 1997 levels and the S&P falling to 1996 levels!

What does this mean for the Mulligan Compound?!! I, Mulligan, am a Modern Dog. I do not have my savings dug in random holes in the 0.67 acres of the Mulligan Compound. No, I have my cash invested in the Market. I supposed this means the Mulligan Compound will have to revert to 1996 Levels.

Oh. There was no Mulligan Compound in 1996. That's OK. In 1996, Samson lived with Mom and Dad. Samson has gone on to the Rainbow Bridge. Therefore, I, Mulligan, can continue to take the place in the Dog Position of the Family. Uh, Pennie, will have to go. Yup. Only ONE Dog in 1996. I was here before Pennie, so she needs to go. Too bad (heh, heh.) As for the Mulligan Compound, that can just be moved back over to the Old House. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof. Sure, the 1996 House was smaller, but it had a fenced yard and Air Conditioning, so I am fine with that.

For the rest of the Mulligan Family: Mom and Dad were indeed married well before 1996, so both of them are still in. That leaves, well, that leaves a bit of a problem for Little Lad and for Wee Lass. Neither of them existed prior to 1996. Middle Lad was born at the end of 1995. As long as the Stock Market doesn't collapse too far, Middle Lad will be safe, but at this point, Little Lad and Wee Lass must look for somewhere to go as they have been "adjusted out." Laid off. Phased Out. I am certain that somewhere in the new Economic Plan they will be able to find UnFamily Benefits. When the Stock Market goes back up, then I will allow them to return.

Who needs Wii Fit when there is Mullii Fit?

I am extremely disappointed in Mom's recent purchase of the Wii Fit. I have no objections to the Wii, itself. It serves to amuse the Lads, allowing Mom more time to serve my needs. I simply fail to see how the Wii Fit provides anything for Mom that I, Mullii can not provide for her.

The Wii Fit program is centered around Four Key Concepts which the Mullii Fit can easily match.

Yoga: Sleeping in bed with me, as I move about during the night, and change the positions of my healing vapors, a person naturally strikes EVERY YOGA pose.

Aerobics: The key to the Mullii Fit program, going on a walk, with Me, Mulligan, is an intense Aerobic workout. I insist on a fast pace. Achieving the Target Heart Rate is NOT an issue as I race from side to side of the sidewalk.

Strength Training: While going on a walk with me, I pull on the leash with tremendous force, require upper body, lower body, and core body strength. In addition, I often jump into the car just before Mom goes on an errand and become an immovable force. Mom must then attempt to push, pull, and drag me from the mini-van, which of course is part of the Strength Training Program.

Balance Games: There is an endless variety of Balance Games in the Mullii Fit program. Climbing out of bed in the dark, in the middle of the night and NOT disturbing me. Carrying a food item to the table with one hand while fending off a four-foot high jumping Mulligan with the other hand and arm and one outstretched leg. Attempting to maintain stability while walking with me and I see another dog. This exercises upper body, lower body and core strength. It also exercises balance as Mom attempts to not topple over to the ground as I attempt to forociously attack a passing dog.

Another aspect of the Wii Fit program is it's Positive Feedback. The Mullii Fit Program also provides Positive Feedback. After a walk in which I have not bitten anyone, or attacked another dog, there is the Positive Feedback that a Law Suit has been avoided. Of course I myself am quite affectionate, providing frequent hugs, slobbery kisses, and I talk upon a variety of subjects. Unlike the Wii Fit, which keeps track of the Body Mass Index, I do not comment about Butt Size, Waist Size and indeed, am quite happy to go get a Super Deluxe Sized Value Meal from a Fast Food Establishment of YOUR Choice.

Yes, there is NO need for a Wii Fit with a Mullii Fit in one's life.

I, Mullii have been replaced.

I thought that this could never happen. I am so gorgeous, and I am the only male in Mom's life that listens. Still, I, Mullii, have found that I have been replaced. Yes, I, Mullii, have replaced by the Wii. The Wii Fit to be exact. What does a flat balance board have that I do not? Oh, yes, it does give positive, reinforcing messages, but how does that replace the snarling, the embarassment, the arm-pulled out the shoulder joy, of walking, me, Mullii?

Is the Mulligan Compound Malodorous?

Several Dogster dogs have mentioned of late, the need for extra "cleaning." Professional cleansing, about the anal area. In fact, certain Dogsters mentioned being evicted from their homes until they returned from their Professional cleaning. Then there was that whole "Febreze" collar Rosette going around. Sigh, even I, Mulligan, and Pennie, too, received many of these Febreze collars. Were they supposed to be Febreze Belts?

I became rather concerned. I think the Mulligan Compound smells quite lovely. When there is a fully loaded Diaper Delight, the odor can be provocative, alluring even. With three lads in the house, there is an ever present odor reminiscent of the locker room at the YMCA. When Oldest Lad was swimming, indeed, the chlorine odor ever lingering often made one think there was both a locker room and pool here at the Mulligan Compound.

It of course never crossed my mind that ME, Mulligan, would emit a foul odor. I proceeded to search the Web. I immediately found a Site that was graphic, yet tasteful, in it's representation of the need by some dogs, but not ALL dogs, for extra cleansing. Oh, No! with Mom's Penchant for Picking, was she going to Bookmark this Site, don the Vinyl Gloves, and find a Pup to Prod? Would I, Mulligan, be Fingered for Fingering?

EGAD! I commenced to a thorough round of licking myself. I am quite certain that anything that may have lingered in a glandular nature about my hind quarters could not have survived such a thorough licking.

I don't think Pennie has anything to worry about. I am certain she tends to her own glands, as she attempts to tend to the glands of the entire family, if given the chance. After a shower, poor Little Lad races across the hallway to his bedroom with one hand across his front privates and one hand across his rear privates, in mortal fear that Pennie will accost him in the hallway with her cold nose and piercing tongue to make sure he "washed thoroughly" in the shower. Yes, since Pennie has been at the Mulligan Compound, incidences of nudity have almost completely desisted.

I must go cleanse myself more. I fear Mom may start worrying about glands again.

Cabin Fever

Friday night I was forced to watch a Horrible, Frightening, Disturbing, Movie. I could not move to another part of the house because Oldest Lad had brought yet another beautiful Young Lady home for the evening, and I had to be make myself available to entertain her, and to kiss her, and to allow her to run her hands over my luxurious fur.

The movie was: "The Shining," starring Jack Nickolson. Jack Nickolson plays the part of a writer named Jack who moves his family to Colorado to become the sole caretakers of a haunted hotel for the winter.

Jack quickly develops a horrible case of CABIN FEVER! I am certain that I, Mulligan have this terrible Cabin Fever. It is well known that Cincinnati has had mountains of snow and ice this winter and the Lads are well over their number of school "calamity days" throwing me completely off my schedule.

Jack develops Writer's Block. His poor wife discovers that he has been writing pages, volumes, even of the same sentence: "All work and no play make Jack a dull boy."

I, Mulligan, sometimes suffer from Writer's Block! Yes, I often can not think of anything to write in my diary! Someday will I succumb to writing diary entry after diary entry of: "You can't teach an old dog new tricks."?

The Hotel, called the "Overlook" has a Hedge Maze. This is what eventually Does Jack In. He gets lost in the Maze and freezes to death.

The Mulligan Compound is Surrounded by Hedge! In the most recent ice storm parts of it even bent down so low to the ground that it practically grabbed me as I tried to "do my business!"

Oh, I am certain that I already have the terribly Cabin Fever. Poor Jack eventually chases his family around the hotel wielding a giant Axe. That is how poor Jack gets lost in the Hedge and freezes to death. Shall that be my fate as well? Will I soon be chasing my family around the Mulligan Compound, wielding my Giant Teeth, only to get lost in the Thicket, where I shall be found, frozen, pathetic, and with no more Diary Entries?

"Active Poster"

Apparently, I am considered an "Active Poster" by Dogster. I, Mulligan, would care to register my general dis-satisfaction with that label.

A Poster is generally rectangular or square, flat, and quite two-dimensional. It's actually NOT two-dimensional, for even the absolutely thinnest of posters does have depth, even if it is but a micron or two, but Posters are generally "regarded" as two-dimensional.

A Poster is usually stuck upon something: a wall. a utility poll. a tree. someone's arse.

I, Mulligan am definitely NOT rectangular or square. I have a beautifully shaped, quite three dimensional form. Perhaps I am not always able to think completely three dimensionally but with an ego as large as mine, it is not because I am a Poster, but due to the sheer extent of my intelligence.

I am NOT stuck to Anything, especially not to anyone's Arse.

Therefore I do agree that I may be "Active" but I am NOT a "Poster."

Getting to Know You, Getting to Know All About You, Getting- to Like You, Getting to Hope You Like Me, Everybody Now!

Batman sent this to me. He does not look at ALL like Yul Brynner in "The King and I." Regardless, he wants me to sing this song about "Getting to Know You."

Copy this diary entry, and paste it into your diary. Read and then delete my answers. Then you can fill in your own! We can get to know our pals better!! Have fun!! Then send a rosette or p mail to 4 pals and ask them to post it in their diary!!!!

1. What color is your collar? My collar is black. I insist on a black collar to show that I am higher than the Lads, who are taking Taekwondo. Black collar is akin to a Black Belt.

2. What kind of food do you eat?
I eat anything. As for Kibble, I eat Iams, the red bag, small chunks.

3. What are your favorite treats? Diaper Delights. Poopsicles. Goldfish crackers. Cough Drops. Chewing Gum. Grill Pans.

4. Do you have a Valentine or significant other?? I am afraid of Gussie Finknottle and Izzy, so I shall fail to list ALL of my many Valentines out of fear for my mortal life. Oh, maybe I should say Mom is my Valentine. Oops. Maybe I should say that Girl that Oldest Lad brought home the other night. The Girl that I Made Out With on the Couch. I think I said I would Call Her . . . .

5. Do you get Table Scraps? Of course. They don't call me the "Clean Up Crew" for Nothing.

6. What is your favorite toy? I am STILL determined to get that "Talky Tina" doll. I don't care if the Wee Lass ends up needing therapy, I WILL destroy that doll for the sake of all Dogness.

7. When is your Birthday? Alas, I was found a poor pathetic runaway.

8. How many times a day do you get to eat? My Kibble is served twice. I Counter Cruise, High Chair Cruise, Back Pack Cruise, Purse Cruise, at all times.

9. Do you have a favorite color? Yes, I think I look best in Green. And I don't believe that Dogs can't see colors. Show me a scientist that has looked through a dogs eyes.

10. Do you hope all your pals put this in their diary? Yes.

Heavy Petting

Last night Oldest Lad was home and one of his friends stopped by. Oh, she is one of my all-time favorites, I am quite in love with her. I, Mulligan, can be quite the Ladies Dog. This Lady bears the unfortunate name of "Cat" but really, I cannot blame her for the burder her parents forced upon her. As soon as Cat sat upon the couch I was ALL OVER HER. In fact she said: "Mulligan, I don't want to make out with you!" Oh, her lovely lips said she did not want to make out with me, but she did not push me away as I wrapped my warm, furry body about her, and kissed her, and lay my bountiful lips about her various body parts. If only Oldest Lad could have scored such success as I did!

Tax Evasion

In light of the recent Vetting of Nominees for various Cabinet Positions for the new Presidential Administration, and the payment of Taxes, or rather lack thereof, I realized that I, Mulligan, have not paid my taxes the entire time I have lived at the Mulligan Compound!

Indeed, I quickly pawed through copies of Mom and Dad's tax returns for the latest years, and they have not paid any taxes for my employment here at the Mulligan Compound. Mom and Dad have not claimed me as a Dependent either, which of course would allow them to use me as slave labor, much as they do the Lads.

I, Mulligan, do not know what to make of this situation, for I am a fine, upstanding Dog Citizen. Oh, I may have a few bad habits, but Tax Evasion? Never!

Super Olympic Bowl Gold Sports Hair

I, Mulligan, am Extremely Proud of my sleek, gorgeous Hair. I groom myself daily. I am a very clean dog.

This summer I was forced to watch much of the Summer Olympics, the Male Swimming, in particular. This was not because Mom has a predilection to view Men in tight fitting outfits, but because Oldest Lad swam as a Varsity Swimmer for Four Years in High School, and indeed swam since he was unceremoniously dumped into the arms of his YMCA swim instructor at the age of 3.

I was forced on Sunday night to watch the Super Bowl, in the faint hopes of snatching a crumb or two of pizza.

Surprisingly, I, Mulligan, discovered that in reality, the two sports, Football and Swimming, differ most only in the treatment of: HAIR.

Both sports take place upon/in a natural medium that has been chemically enhanced. Football upon grass that has been chemically and genetically altered to be green and fit, and Swimming in water that has been chlorinated.

Both sports attract participants of all shapes, colors and sizes. These players go on to further develop body shapes of their specialty. In football there is the massive shouldered blocker and the lighter runner. In swimming the butterflyer is massive shouldered.

Both sports involve traversing quickly across that medium: In football, the players quickly run the ball down or up the field. In swimming, the swimmers swim quickly up and down the pool.

Both sports involve much yelling from the fans that the participants ignore. Yes, the football players have long learned to drown out the fan noise. And Mom has sat through too many swim meets, calmly and quietly, next to parents yelling at their children, knowing that the children can not hear them while their heads are under the water.

I, Mulligan, however, made an observation that there was much of this on the Super Bowl Field: Hair. Yes. Hair.

Swimmers don't have good hair. First off, during training, whatever body and head hair they have becomes chemically altered by the pool water to become some sort of strange odd color. It breaks easily. Then, before big meet, such as the Olympics, ALL HAIR is removed. Oh, there may be some Head Hair left, to be tightly hidden under a silicone or latex swim cap, but the body hair? Removed.

On the Super Bowl Field there was Glorious Hair! Oh, some of the players had little hair, snicker, snicker, the ones who obviously were already succumbing to what We Dogs don't get: Male Pattern Baldness. But the gorgeous locks on some of the players. I wonder? Is there a Hair Pulling Penalty? Certainly these players earn enough to afford a hair cut, but with hair like this? If I, Mulligan, had locks like those, I too, would let them flow from under my helmet.

Wasted language.

Mom has plenty of company. Really, that is part of my job. To make sure Mom is never alone. We fear that she if ever alone, she may realizes that she enjoys being alone and will leave us. Not that we would not hunt her down quickly and bring her back.

Anyhoo, Mom talks to me a lot. I do understand that a Woman needs to spend much of their time in Wasteful Conversation. However, there are a few things that Mom utters to me during the day that she can just stop.

Here are some things that Mom can just stop Wasting Her Words On:

"Mulligan, did you have to . . . ?"

Example: "Mulligan, did you have to get into my purse again while I was driving and chew my whole pack of gum and then breathe your minty breath at me in satisfaction?"

(Obviously, I DID have to.)

"Mulligan, must you . . . ?"

Example: "Mulligan, must you lick the old diaper while I am putting the new diaper on Wee Lass?"

(Obviously it is something I must do.)

If Mom would simply stop Wasting Her Words on the above such nonsense then we would have more time to discuss Politics, Quantum Physics, History, and the like.

The Mulligan Compound Party

Yet another Snow Day. Un-be-lieve-able.
The Mulligan Compound remains encased in ice and snow, and worse than what Mother Nature brought: School Children.
Why are Middle Lad and Little Lad not safely ensconced in their fine institutions of Publicly Funded Education? Why must their unsavory, loud friends come to call?

We are running out of provisions. Yet Mom continues to feed, not just the Lads, but their friends as well. She needs to save the food for us!

Surely we shall run out of food soon, and be forced to starve. At that point, we of course shall have to decide which of the Mulligan Compound shall be the first to "go." The Wee Lass is too small to provide much but a meal for me. The Little Lad is too stringy. Plus, he has a fearsome temper, and I do say he could come in handy if we must go storm a Supermarket for their last loaf of bread. Put him into one of his rage storms and the kibble would be ours for the taking. Dad is, well, he is after all the Family Provider. We really should hang on to him in this current economic crisis as he does have employment. That leaves Mom and Middle Lad. The Mulligan Compound could not survive without Mom. Who would do the laundry? That leaves Middle Lad. Yes. I do wonder how Middle Lad would taste with a bit of ketchup, perhaps a cheese sauce.

Chester Tagged Me

I'm supposed to write 5 funny things about me, and tag 5 other pups.
I am NOT supposed to play Tag because I get to wound up and begin to herd, but . . .

1. I like to take things out of Mom's purse or back pack while she drives. She can't stop me because she is driving. I am sure she finds it very entertaining, especially when things fall out of the car when she opens the door.

2. Chester admitted that his Mom sometimes gently chews on his ears. This is what he said: "My Mom sometimes "chews"gently on my floppy ears (she covers her teeth with her lips first). I realize this is a funny thing about my Mom, but it's funny that I let her do it."
Well, my Mom likes to do that to. Moms are Soooo Wierd.

3. I sing along when Middle Lad plays the Alto Saxophone.

4. I HATE the Ice and Snow. I think the school children should make up every day that they miss! It takes much needed time away from me and Mom. I sure hope the legislators don't pass that the children get "extra" emergency days this year. Perhaps I will have to go to Columbus, the state capitol, and gently encourage them with my cheerful smile.

5. I can be truly pathetic, when need be. It helps to have extra skin on the forehead to make a nice pathetic worried crease, as needed.

I have to think of who to tag now . .. .

Devious Deception

Mom has for the last year or so been obsessed with the craft of crocheting. She claims that it calms her. She has made several afghans and is going to move on to making kurdistans, pakistans, or perhaps other countries as she becomes more skilled.

I, Mulligan, am the only one in the Mulligan Compound that as yet sees the great danger lurking here! Oh, the lads, even Dad, see Mom innocently crocheting with her crochet hook and her skeins of yarn, churning out warm projects. Projects that are ultimately: Knots. Tangles. Webs of Deceit.

Yes. Webs of Deceit.

I am quite certain that this is all a devious deception by Mom. Yes. Who will be the first to push Mom over the edge? Will it be Me, Mulligan? Little Lad with his Fiery Temper? Middle Lad when he finally forgets one homework assignment or school note too many? Mom is always to be feared the most when she is quite and calm. Am I the only one to see this?

This will be the scenario: The lad, Dad or Dog, will be nestled, all snug and warm. Mom will be snuggled up next to them. Meanwhile, she shall be busily Crocheting a Spider Web, a Snare, a Trap of Yarn around the Victim. The poor Victim will only feel warmer, more nurtured as his nest of soft yarn grows.

When the Victim finally awakens, he will discover that he is trapped. Trapped in a web of knots of yarn. The more the victim tries to untangle himself, the tighter the knots shall grow. The victim will then only hope that Mom will administer the coup de grace with the crochet hook itself.

Dry Skin

OK, I will admit that I have an Obsession for Aquaphor. I am very concerned that in this cold, dry winter weather I will suffer from Dry Skin. My body is covered with protective hair, so really, if I were to suffer from Dry Skin, wouldn't it be on the INSIDE? Yes. Therefore I must EAT the Aquaphor to prevent getting dry, chapped, irritated, itchy, skin. If I got itchy dry skin inside, how would I scratch it? Swallow a paw?

Maybe Mom should just buy more tubes of Aquaphor so that she and I can share and I won't have to eat hers. Really, it's quite selfish of her to only buy Aquaphor for herself.

Proper Walking

I finally was able to cajole Mom out for some exercise today as it reached a balmy mid 40s this afternoon. Mom is just soooo difficult. Of course we had to take the Wee Lass with us. I just could NOT get Mom to comply with Proper Walking Technique. First, she insisted on going slow, as opposed to He!! Bent for Leather; our usual pace. She was fearful that she would hit a bump and Wee Lass would fly out of the Stroller. For Dog's sake, isn't that why we have health insurance and live five minutes from the emergency room! By this age, Little Lad had already had his first broken arm!

Second off, Mom kept insisting that she keep her leash on one side of the stroller. I kept having to tug her and pull her to let me switch sides of the side walk to make sure I marked equally.

Alas, I felt that I was finally making some inroads into training Mom to walk on the leash and now that she is insistent on bringing the Wee Lass and the stroller I fear that I shall have to begin train all over again. The Woman even forgot that when I pull vigorously she is supposed to speed up!

Backyard

The Woman is Crazy I say! Crazy!

This morning Mom shoved Pennie and I out into the frigid Arctic Air to take care of our Toileting Needs. She came out with us and proceeded to bag up some Poopsicles.

"How Lovely," I thought. "Mom is storing some Poopsicles for Pennie and I for the summer. How nice it will be on a scorching day this summer when Mom pulls a refreshing Poopsicle out of the freezer."

I was aghast when I saw that Mom threw all of the Poopsicles away! In the trash!

When Mom went inside Pennie and I rushed in as well. Nope. Our way was barred. Mom forced us back out. She had noticed that in the frigid air we had just "made the motions" and had not really taken care of business. Curse that Woman! She went in and grabbed some small treats and threw them in the back yard as motivation. We were forced to stay outside until Mom could clearly see (which she could, by reason of her recent Poopsicle Clearing) that Business had indeed been finished.

Middle Lad and Dad are today, in this Arctic Air, venturing forth for an Outdoor Boy Scout Activity called the Klondike. Mom made sure that Middle Lad (she let Dad fend for himself, because he is a grown-up) had: Snow Pants, Long Underwear, Hand Warmers, Foot Warmers, Thermal Socks, Fake-Fur Hat, Snow Boots, Winter Coat. and some Kibble for lunch.

Me? Mulligan? I have to go outside with nothing but my collar on!

The Weatherman Says!

On the very own news forecast, the Weatherman said that it would be Bitterly Cold with Harmful Temperatures. He also said: "Be sure to protect pets in these extreme weather conditions."

Yes. Although I don't consider myself to be a pet, exactly; I believe that this calls for Mom and Dad to stop forcing me out into the Cold! Wee Lass uses her own Indoor Backyard strapped to her arse. Mom, Dad, and the Lads use the flushing type Indoor Backyard. At night, Little Lad often just uses his bed.

I demand to take care of my toileting needs inside! Grass grows quickly! I see no reason why a little patch of the house cannot be turned into a grassy knoll for me to use as an Indoor Backyard. Throw down a few bags of dirt, some plush Kentucky Blue Grass, (I will settle for Crab Grass, since that is what I am used to anyway) water it, and I will have my own Indoor Backyard!

The Mulli-Light Zone

The Wee Lass received TWO dolls for Christmas gifts. One doll I have completely left alone. The OTHER doll, I believe is an evil descendent of "Talky Tina" and must be destroyed, at all costs, without concern for my own personal safety and/or well being.

In "The Living Doll" episode of "The Twilight Zone," a little girl named Christy receives a doll named "Talky Tina." This doll says "My name is Talky Tina, and I love you." There is also a Step Dad. This Step Dad is played by Telly Savalas. He is having a tremendous difficulty adjusting to his new role as husband and father. For once Step Dads are portrayed in a poor light instead of Step Moms, as in almost every Disney movie. But I digress. To everyone else "Talky Tina" says "My name is Talky Tina, and I love you." To the Telly Savalas character, this doll begins to say things like "My name is Talky Tina and I HATE you." Telly Savalas tries to throw the doll away. He tries to burn it. He tries to cut it up with a saw, but nothing he can do harms this doll.

Eventually, one night after everyone has gone to bed, Telly Savalas hears strange voices from downstairs. As he goes down the stair case, Talky Tina is lying in wait on one of the uppermost stairs. She trips him and he plunges to his death.

As soon as Wee Lass received this dreaded Doll I knew that there was a problem with it. My keen Mulli Senses were aquiver. I attacked it before it was even out of it's packaging. Mom removed the voice box and tried washing the doll in the machine. Still, I am determined to destroy that doll. I am certain that Doll is a descendent of Talky Tina. Talky Tina undoubtedly still survives in some land fill. With her inability to decompose, the billions of molecules that make up her physical structure are left to slough off and slowly generate new Talky Tina Offspring!

I must destroy this Terribly Talky Tina Offspring Doll! In the Mulligan Compound we have the staircase going upstairs. We have the staircase to the basement. We even have the one step down from the main part of the house into the Utility Room, where Mom broke her foot last year, even before this Cursed Toy's arrival.

I shall leave the Other Doll for the Wee Lass. She is still Young. She will Heal.

The Long Paw of Dogster!

Can a Dog Have NO PRIVACY? Am I to be treated like Jennifer Aniston, Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise? Will I have to become Bulimic (never, not me!) because of comments about me being too fat? Or will I have to Binge (now there's a possibility) because of comments of being super-model thin?

I, Mulligan, am shown, without MY COLLAR, in the shower, getting a bath, bare for all the world to see, in the latest Dogster e-newsletter.

Lullaby, Mullabye

In the never ending Quest to get the Wee Lass to sleep, Mom tried playing some Lullabies on the CD player. Yes, a CD player as Mom does not have an MP3 player, she is SO Behind the times. She doesn't even TEXT, although she claims it is a cost saving measure; to save the monthly fee.

Anyhoo, Pennie and I went upstairs to listen to the Lullabies. Soon, the Wee Lass was sleeping, and tucked into her Crate. It was not time for Me and Pennie to be in bed. Mom beckoned to us. She softly called to us. She said "you HAVE to go OUT before you can officially go to bed." Forget it. After listening to those lullabies, which were still playing, Me and Pennie were relaxed and out. Probably for the night, unlike the Wee Lass.

Middle of the Bed! At last!

I have at last reached my coveted postition, the Middle of the Bed. Dad does not want any part of Dog to touch him when he sleeps. That leaves Me and Pennie sleeping on the Other Side of Mom. My Rightful Position, of course, would be sleeping alone with Mom, with Dad in a twin bed, I would even let him get a Twin XL, in the room, or perhaps in his garage, so he could sleep with is cars.

Last Night, Wee Lass continued her night time fussiness. It did not bother me. I climbed into bed, and rapidly fell asleep, gently snoring, with my head upon Mom's pillow. Mom sat in the rocking chair, rocking and patting Wee Lass. Dad assumed his Side of the Bed. When Mom finally got Wee Lass settled down and into her Crate, Mom just slid in beside me. There was no way she was going to make any noise, any bother, anything that might disturb the slumber of Wee Lass. Dad, too, was in Mortal Fear of disturbing Wee Lass.

I spent the night peacefully slumber betwixt Mom and Dad, snuggled between them, soothing them both with my calming vapors.

How was I to know?

On Christmas Eve, a few Visitors stopped by to see Wee Lass. To add Insult, the Visitors brought gifts, but had forgotten to bring anything for ME, Mulligan, and the Visitor's clothes reeked of those evil beasts, Cats.

Anyhoo, the Lads placed the gifts on a shelf. Later that night; Little Lad moved the gifts under the Festivus Tree. I went Nuts. All that was seen of me was my wonderful butt doodles as I threw myself under that Festivus Tree, determined to grab ONE of those gifts. No it was not Little Lad's gift. No it was not Middle Lad's gift. I wanted the gift for Wee Lass.

I was fairly foaming at the mouth, bent on getting THAT Gift. I pulled it out and began to rip off the wrapping. As soon as the wrapping was off I was bent on tearing into the packaging. Mom and Dad and the Lads were frantically trying to grab this package from me all the while, attempting to save poor Wee Lass' from having her gift destroyed by my mighty jowls.

The gift turned out to be a: Doll. Now, we are well acquainted here at the Mulligan Compound with Action Figures, GI Joes, WebKinz and even CareBears. There is even a Play Kitchen in the Basement Playroom, as Mom is determined that the Lads should leave home ready to fend for themselves. But a Doll? How was I to know what was a Doll? Was this actually some offspring of that demonic "Chucky" from the teen age thriller "Child's Play?" Or was this doll simply purchased at a store at the same time as dog food and permeated with the scent of kibble?

Regardless, I am a ravaging maniac about this Doll. Wee Lass was given another Doll by someone else that I have completely ignored. Mom hopes that a thorough machine washing will Exorcise this Demon Doll and I will ignore it; otherwise she is not sure what will happen.

Status Report

Mom and Dad are home from Guatemala with the Wee Lass. I must no longer live in denial of this Terribleness that has been bestowed upon the Mulligan Compound. The Wee Lass arrived at the Mulligan Compound while Pennie and I were on a Forced March with the Oldest Lad. Mom and Dad felt that the Wee Lass should not enter her new world facing two 50 pound wild animals in a frenzy over seeing Mom and Dad after their absence. During this Forced March, I, Mulligan, sustained an Eye Trauma. I thought Mom would only have eyes for the Wee Lass, but she quickly noted that I was in pain and blinkly my eye rapidly. After several hours it was clear that I was in agony and could no longer hold my eyes open. It was determined that a trip to the Trauma Center was in order.

Dad and Oldest Lad hurried my off to the Trauma Center. As any well-informed patient would do; I smiled broadly to great the doctors, and talked loudly to request information about my care. Unfortunately, these doctors had no interest in allowing their patients to communicate about medical decisions and I was Muzzled. The Trauma Physicians worked Feverishly to administer drops and salve to my poor eye, after determining that it was indeed scratched. Thanks to the Miracles of Modern Medicine, I was soon able to leave the Emergency Clinic, I mean Trauma Center, and head for home. With absolute disregard for my feelings, Dad kept whining about getting up at 4:00 am to catch a plane in Guatemala, the travails of immigration and customs in Houston, narrowly making a flight back home, a band concert, and then ending his night at the Emergency Pet Clinic. I guess that is why I love Mom more.

I am attempting to adjust to the Wee Lass. First off, it is quite unfair that with the wind and the cold and the rain, that I, Mulligan, am being forced unceremoniously outside to take of my business. Meanwhile, Wee Lass wears her own Indoor Backyard. Not like the Indoor Backyard that Mom, Dad, and the Lads use. No, this Indoor Backyard is worn all the time, and Wee Lass doesn't even have to stop what she is doing to use it. I am still trying to attempt to get hold of one of these Diaper Delights, especially one of the filled ones. I hear that like each chocolate in a box, each Diaper Delight has a different moist, chewy center.

Wee Lass and I are already working out a feeding system. She feeds herself one bite of food and she feeds me one bite with the other hand. After she gets down from the high chair, Mom brushes all the crumbs and other bits off onto the floor and the "Clean Up Crew," is called in: Mulligan and Pennie.

I dare not say I am happy with the situation, for I am not. I am trying to cope the best I can in these difficult times.

Staying Home

Mulligan: "Mom, do you have my Passport all ready? I have my dog license on."

Mom: "Er, ah, Mulligan, I think maybe you should stay home."

Mulligan: "How can you go to Central American without me?"

Mom: "First off, Mulligan, I need you to take care of things while we are gone. Second off, Mulligan, what if they don't have Iams Kibble? The food is supposed to be quite good but based mostly on beans and rice. You know what beans do to you. What if you get gassy from the beans, then you don't pressurize with the airplane pressure. Your digestive system might explode."

Mulligan: "Well then why don't you take Pennie?"

Mom: "Pennie is liable to eat some Rodent that turns out to be a Endangered Species and we will land in a Central America Jail. You will see us on an episode of "Locked Up Abroad."

Mulligan: "Oh. Well when you come home I expect you to immediately return to lavishing all of your attention upon me. Pennie can be the Nanny to the new Wee Lass."

Mom: "That's not quite what I had in mind, but we'll see."

Deeply Offended.

This very afternoon, Middle Lad deeply Offended Me, in my already fragile emotion state. Middle Lad was practicing the piano. He was playing "Joy to the World." I am a total sucker for Hymns. I can not but help to sing along with them as they touch me to the very core of my being, proving that I am not the totallly Insensitive Beast for which I am so frequently accused.

I was singing beautifully to "Joy to the World." Middle Lad stopped. He said: "Mulligan! I can not stand you near me singing with your Butt Breath!"

How Rude! I, Mulligan, am not the Middle Lad who routinely forgets to go to school without brushing his teeth. No. I have several chew bones around the house that I chew upon throughout the day. I, Mulligan, do not have to have an "extra" tooth brush in the down stairs bathroom so Mom can catch me before I leave the house without brushing.

In fact, when it comes to Personal Hygeine, I am far more Fastidious than Middle Lad. My Underwear, if I wore it, would never have Skid Marks, as I clean myself quite well after using the Backyard. Unlike Middle Lad, I clean myself often, and thoroughly throughout the day, instead of just showering at night, and having to be sent back sometimes to wash his hair.

I do not have spilled food about my fur. It is always easy to identify what Middle Lad consumed for lunch. I leave not a speck of wasted food to bespoil my lovely lips, face, or body hair.

Yes, I am deeply offended. I LIKE my breath. I am one of the Cleanest Dogs I know. Even during the middle of the night, Mom will awaken to the bed shaking as I attend to cleaning myself in the dark depths of the night, rather than let myself be soiled until the morning.

Doomsday Prophecy

The Great Discussion is: The Arrival.

The email finally arrived that I, Mulligan, have dreaded for so long. Mom and Dad have been duly summoned to fetch one child from Central America. In a Great Testimony to Govermental Efficiency, Mom and Dad have been given only Five Days to make their travel arrangements and get themselves down to Central America to meet this long feared, balance of power shifting, little female child. Not that I have a Mulli-Opinion or anything.

Arrangements have been made for Grandma and Oldest Lad to be in charge of the Mulligan Compound in Mom's absence. Yes, we all know that means that per usual, in Mom's very infrequent absences, it shall be up to me, Mulligan, to keep the Mulligan Compound Running.

This really is quite unfair. I am facing this great trauma to be thrust upon me, yet in the meantime, I shall be left to be Mother Mulligan in the Momliness Void left by Mom's absence. It shall be left to me to put aside my considerable angst and still care for Homework, Lunches, Kumon, Saxophone, Piano, Bedtime, Showers, oh does a Mother Mulligan's List never end?

Considerable Discussion is being addressed to when the Wee Lass arrives how, how she shall meet her Canine Relatives. Mom seems to think that after a long plane ride with strange parents and then a new house that perhaps the Wee Lass won't care to be bowled over by two 50 pound Canines anxious to welcome, not the Wee Lass, but Mom. What manipulations shall be taken to assure a kind, gentle, welcome for Canines and Lass alike?

I have to admit that Considerable Discussion is also being addressed to how I, Mulligan, will react to the Wee Lass. I have been assured from fellow Dogsters that Toddlers are in fact Harmless Creatures who walk around with lucious morsels clinging to their faces and hands, all with the reach of a Canine's tongue.

Tyler, my Predecessor passed on his Deal with Little Lad. Little Lad fed Tyler bits from the high chair. In turn, Tyler did not EAT Little Lad. Both Samson (Tyler's Predecessor) and Tyler passed on the luxury of delving into the trash can as soon as the humans left the house, and spending hours enjoying the delicacies of dirty diapers.

Still, Tyler and Samson, in their day, and Pennie, now, are far less Self-Centered dogs than I. Will I, Mulligan, be able to rise to the occasion and accept this creature? this dreaded Wee Lass?

By the laws of Mathematics, I must have CAKE!

Middle Lad and Mom were going over his Math Homework. Middle Lad was having a bit of trouble understanding that in Algebraic Equations, it is OK to modify equations as long as one does it equally to both sides of the equation. Something about Inverse Properties and Simplifying Equations and getting numbers to switch sides of the equal sign.

OK, so if one adds 6 to one side of an equation, then one must add 6 to the other side of the equation. If one multiplies one side of the equation by -231, then one must multiply the other side of the equation by -231.

Today is Middle Lad's birthday. Middle Lad had a piece of Cake. Dad had a piece of Cake. Mom had a piece of Cake. Little Lad had a piece of Cake.

Algebraically speaking, therefore, I, Mulligan, MUST HAVE A PIECE OF CAKE!

Who knows what is going to happen to this very Mulligan Compound if I am denied my piece of cake?

I supposed I know where I stand.

The Mulligan Compound is suffering under the ravages of the White Death! My 0.6 Acres of Suburbia is covered in at least a Quarter Inch of that harbinger of frost bite and broken bones: Snow.

Little Lad wanted to go outside this morning. Mom went to the Foyer Closet, and began to sort throught the vast size selection of Snow Pants. Between the Lads the family has accumulated a pair of hand-me-down Snow Pants in almost every size. As long as one does not mind black or blue, then assuredly, a warm, water resistant pair of snow garments should be able to be found. Little Lad was forced to stand as Mom pulled out various garments and held them up to him: No this was far to short. No this was far too long. Finally she found one that looked about right.

Little Lad's ordeal was not over as he had outgrown his Snow Boots from last year. He was forced to go to the basement hand-me-down boot, soccer shoe, baseball cleat, and swim fin Bin. He tried on boots until a pair was found that fit well-enough.

Suitably attired in Snow Pants, Boots, Winter Coat, Hat, and Gloves, Little Lad was sent to face the Great White Death, which was surely up to A Third of An Inch by now.

Me? Mulligan? I was just booted out the door in my skivies to face the White Death.

Cough Drops, er Throat Lozenges

I am not such a foolish dog as to simply believe media advertising. However, I am quite pleased to report that Cough Drops, or Throat Lozenges, whatever one prefers to call them, really do ward off a Cough! Throw away that foul tasting Zinc trash and that spuriously un-proven Echinacea.

Mom has been suffering from Bronchitis and from a Sinus Infection. First she had a nasty cold and then a sinus infection in October. It never really went away. Then Oldest Lad and Dad were generously donated more germs to her and she a Re-Bound Cold that led to even more Coughing and finally Bronchitis and another Sinus Infection.

Through all of this, I have been doing my best with my humidified healing vapors from both ends. I have been laying on Mom's Chest as needed to push her body fluids around and keep the mucus flowing. I have provided the warmth from my own body to aid Mom's healing.

In all of this, I have given no thought to my personal safety and the great threat of catching a terrible case of Bronchitis or a Sinus Infection myself.

Indeed, however, I believe I have found the Preventative. Yes. I have been consuming as many of Mom's Cough Drops as I can find. I have consumed Ricola, Ludens and Halls. In the car, I dig them out of Mom's purse and consume them. In the house, I strain to great Mulli-heights to grab them. Walgreen's probably thinks that Mom is supplying Cough Drops to an entire Hospital with the quantities that she has been buying to replace what I have been consuming.

I have not Coughed a Single Time. Perhaps Mom should try another brand because obviously consuming the Cough Drops isn't doing anything for her. Although she is pretty amusing on the Prescription Cough Syrup with Codeine -- yes, if you have any legal documents you wish signed, I, Mulligan, can be bought.

Port-a-Crate

Several of my supportive Dogster pals have sent me p-mails asking about the sleeping arrangements once the female toddler arrives. The Queen size bed is full. Dad has his half of the bed. Mom's half is taken up by Mom, me, and Pennie. The impending Toddler may have only been 19 pounds 10 ounces at last weight check but certainly no room in our half of the bed and Dad has never been one to share his half. Selfish, yes, it comes from growing up with only one sister. Mom was one of six children, and of course pups come in full litters, and therefore the rest of us learned to share space at an early age.

Upon advice from the Social Worker, the Female Toddler is going to sleep in a Port-a-Crate in Our Room. The Social Worker said that with all the transitions going on in the child's life she should have ready access to Mom and Dad for the first few weeks home and learn that Mom and Dad are there to meet all of her needs.

Just don't get me started on Social Workers. When the Social Worker came to the house to interview the family, I had no idea it was to discuss the possibility of adding a child, no less a female. I was thrilled that she might be taking AWAY one of the lads. I was all charm and grace. If I had known the truth, then I certainly would have acted my normal brutish self and perhaps ended this foolishness outright.

Anyhoo, in further testimony to diminished capacity of humans over dogs; this port-a-crate doesn't even have a lid! Apparently human children will stay in a lidless crate! No self-respecting Pup would stay in a lid-less crate.

Balance of Power

The United States is awaiting with much angst the outcome of the Senatorial Elections. With 3 Senate seats in limbo, it is possible for the Democrats to attain that coveted number of 60; especially after they forgave Democrat Senator Joseph Lieberman for the egregious sin of supporting John McCain. This shift in the Balance of Power would allow the Democrats to thumb their noses at the Republicans and make all the decisions about what toppings get chosen for pizza lunches.

The Mulligan/Pennie Compound itself faces the Terror of such a shift in the Balance of Power. Yes. It has been a long standing tradition that the Mulligan/Pennie Compound is Male Dominated. Dad. Oldest Lad. Middle Lad. Little Lad. Mulligan. Even I, Mulligan, was the third in a history of Male Dogs. Mom was always the sole Female Voice. A rather Loud Voice, with Absolute Veto power, if the truth must be admitted, yet still, even Mom was finding herself become more and more gender neutral. She dresses in jeans and t-shirts. She actually OWNS a skirt, and perhaps a dress, but in three years I have seen her wear a skirt one time. In fact, often she wears hand-me-downs from Oldest Lad. The woman can out-belch any of the males in the household, although she claims it is her acid-reflux.

Along came Pennie, adding a tweak of femaleness to the home. At least Mom was able to find a bit of Female Companionship, but Pennie, who eats moles, chipmunks, and trash, tends to vote with the Males of the house.

Looming in the horizon now, however, is the threat of a major upheaval to the Balance of Power. A female. A girl child. All the worse because Oldest Lad is off at the College Dorm Kennel most of the time, leaving his vote frequently uncast. Oh, Woman are evil, treacherous, creatures, for Mom to so carefully figure out how to swing more Power in her direction. Just go adopt a little girl. Add another Female Vote. Dad and the Lads seem oblivious to this newest Terror Threat to the Mulligan/Pennie Compound. Only, I, Mulligan seem to sense the looming danger. I feel like the sole voice in the wilderness howling for all to beware of the danger, yet no one is listening to my warning.

Inspections

I have been filled with deep anxiety these past few days. Mom has been bringing forth items obviously meant for use by a female child of small stature. I try to simply ignore this but of course all the items must be thoroughly sniffed and rolled upon to be sure that they do not contain any weapons of mass destruction, biohazards, explosive devices or other threats. Indeed I have found nothing threatening about the items themselves. I believe the main threat shall come from the User of the Items.

At last update, the small female weighed in at 19 pounds and 10 ounces. Oh. With the Holidays approaching, isn't that just about the size of a nice plump Turkey? Several months past, Izzy was presented with the unwelcome visit of a Baby at her home. She thought perhaps that Babies Tasted Like Chicken. She Licked the Baby and found that it did NOT indeed taste like chicken. Perhaps Izzy had simply confused her Poultry. Perhaps babies and or toddlers taste like Turkey. Yes. I shall to find out. A nice plump 19 pound 10 ounce Toddler Turkey might make up for all those nasty pink and purple outfits Mom has been washing.

Clean Rebuttal to Mom

Thank you to my kind friend, Louie. He pointed out to me that Moms always see faults. A dog can do good, noble deeds 99.9% of the time and a Mom will never notice . Do one thing, ONE THING, wrong and a dog never hears the end of it.

That got me to thinking about the LEVER 2000 Soap commercial. According to LEVER 2000 there are over 2000 body parts and LEVER 2000 cleans them all.

Well, I, Mulligan, am made up of a body. My body functions stunningly well, thank you. Therefore just by being alive, which I was the last time I checked, I am doing over 2000 things correctly. My hair grows well. Eyes, ears, lips (gorgeous), tongue (long, thick and supple), liver still thriving despite the toxins I consume, digestive tract out-putting. Yes, indeed, I am functioning quite well, and correctly.

OK. I'll round my body parts DOWN to 2000, for the sake of a round number. I did oh, say 6 misdeeds today. That's only a rate of: 0.3%.

That's rounding DOWN my body parts; not counting all the individual red blood cells, white blood cells, neurons, muscle cells, etc, that are all working correctly.

I am sure that if one correctly added in all Those Other Parts of ME, Mulligan, that one would find that I am almost completely CORRECT, and rarely, if ever, in the wrong.

Unanswerable Questions

Mom: "Mulligan, does it ever occur to you that just once I'd like to come home and find the house not ransacked while I have been gone? Making the house appear to burglars like it has already been burglarized is not what a dog is supposed to do. Couldn't you just try barking?"

Mulligan: "Oh. I was just trying to use Middle Lad's Asthma Inhalers for my little cough here. Things kind of went down hill from there."

What Mom would like to tell the teacher

This is what Mom would like to send to Middle Lad's Teacher

Dear Mrs. Teacher,

For the last three weeks every Monday morning I have dutifully packed up five portioned zip top bags of Pepperidge Farm Goldfish Crackers. I have placed them in a labelled brown bag. I have placed them in Middle Lad's back pack. I have then told Middle Lad at least 232 times, please leave these in Mrs. Teacher's classroom for snack time like you are supposed to. Every Monday afternoon Middle Lad has come home. 7 minutes and 22 seconds after his return, Mulligan has emerged from the Utility Room after opening Middle Lad's back pack and removed the brown paper bag and 4 zip top bags of Pepperidge Farm Goldfish Crackers. He has then eaten through the plastic bags and eaten all the Goldfish Crackers. THIS week, Middle Lad, after his after-school snack, simply left the entire 64 ounce box of Pepperidge Farm Goldfish Crackers on the kitchen table. Upon the family returning from errands, this box was discovered, with Mulligan's head inside of it, licking out the last remnants, inside of the Living Room.

I do admit that I am an evil, cruel, Mother, but I do not feel that I must replace the Goldfish Crackers that Middle Lad was a. Supposed to leave at school in the safety of the locked classroom or b. Supposed to put away in the pantry.

Sincerely,
Middle Lad's Mother

Free Pass!

I have a Free Pass! Pennie does too, although I really don't care about her. Middle Lad behaved rather badly today. In fact, Mom did not raise her voice, yell at him, or anything. Everyone knows that if Mom is so mad that she is calm, then boy are you in deep trouble!

I now have a Free Pass to do just about anything for several days because it just won't compare to how far in the dog house Middle Lad is. We all, Pennie, Dad, Little Lad and Oldest Lad, should take advantage of this temporary time period to stretch our limits.

Mom is a red-head. And of Irish descent to boot. Well, it is widely know about the tempers of Irish Red-heads. The nice thing is that once Mom flairs up she settles down, but is never reasonable because she is a woman; which defies logic. It doesn't defy logic that she is a woman, but she herself defies logic because women are illogical beings.

Anyhoo, I am not a fan of Breed Specific Legislation. Really, I believe that it is the upbringing of the dog that determines the qualities. However, what about Irish Red-Heads? Should there be an exception made for Irish Red-Heads? Perhaps there should be Breed Specific Legislation against them. Definitely well defined laws about how to care and maintain them, but how can one guarantee keeping them under control 100% of the time? I simply cannot see how anyone could keep Mom under control 100% of the time. The only solution I can see for Irish Red-Heads is well-defined laws and perhaps a ban altogether.

More of the Mulli-Plan for Economic Recovery

All dogs must be willing to do their part to aid this Great Country in its Economic Recovery. I, Mulligan, am trying to be less Ego-Centric and help out at home more. To save on the Lad's dental bills, I have been regularly raiding their Halloween Candy Supply. Yes, this puts my own beautiful dentition in grave peril, but it saves the long-term costs of the sugar-hazard to the Lad's Teeth: a. time lost from school going to the dentist, damaging their overall educational perfomance and long-term career potential, b. the actual cost of going to the dentist.

I have also recently acquired Tape Worm. Mom first suspected this when she noticed me doing the "Bum Scoot Boogie," across the Living Room Carpet. This dog maneuver for scratchy butts is so famous that the Country Line Dancers have named a Line Dance after it, the "Boot Scoot Boogie," for when they have something stuck to the bottom of their cowboy boot.

First off, the "Bum Scoot Boogie" fluffs the carpet fibers, extending the life-time of the carpet, saving money. Second off, I am a veritable Tape Dispenser. The Family can save all sorts of money for all of their Taping/Attachment/Shipping needs by simply lifting my tail. Thoughtfully, I have acquired this just in time for the hectic Holiday shipping and present wrapping season when Tape is a Precious Commodity.

I encourage all Dogster Dogs to do their part to help their families during these tough economic times. As I continue to use my Massive Brain to Ponder the Multitude of Economic Woes, I will add more to my Mulli-Plan for Economic Recovery.

Playing tag

My dear friend Louie, has tagged me. It is hard for me in these tough economic times to consider playing a game of tag. I find it difficult to come up with random thoughts of myself when I am deeply engaged in considering how Dogs shall overcome the current Economic Crisis. Here on Dogster itself is the comment that some families may be considering feeding their dogs a Less Quality Kibble! How can this happen? Mom has made no mention of changing my Kibble. She understands that with all the extra non-food items that I eat that my Iams Kibble is probably the only thing holding my poor digestive tract together! The rest of the family has switched to several "store brands" of foods, but not Mulligan!

I shall try to make a fair go at Seven Random Facts.

1. I have Butt Doodles. Two Perfect Curlicues of Hair on my Back Side. Stunning.

2. I can open back packs, gym bags, purses, and anything else with a zipper with my delicate lips and teeth.

3. I filled the car with the Tell-Tale Scent of Jolly Rancher Green Apple when I found a sucker inside a bag while Mom was driving and powlerless to stop me.

4. My Armpits Stink.

5. My Mom likes my snoring better than anyone else's in the family.

6. I wish I could meet this Sigmund Freud guy and have a chat about Ego. I am certain he has never met an Ego like mine. Well maybe some of the better know sociopaths of the world have larger Egos.

7. I have to admit that I, Mulligan, do sometimes get the dreaded Frito Feet. Not as bad as Pennie. Mom wipes our feet with Baby Wipes, yes Baby Wipes! sometimes to try to get rid of the odor. Mom has Frito Feet, too. It runs in her family.

I shall now run around and try to shake off some of the burdens crushing my brain and tag some dogs.

By George, I think I've got it!

I, Mulligan, believe I have the answer. My parents, for vastly unfathomable reasons, wish to adopt a child. A girl child, no less. For dog's sake, what does the Mulligan Compound need with another child and a female no less? Certainly Mom and Pennie are enough trouble for the males of this fine Compound. I have kept myself as much in denial of the inevitableness of this event as possible but it seems the impending horror is coming, like the dreaded playing of the music in the "Jaws" movies.

I, have however, come up with I believe a firm way to block this event. Mom and Dad are yet again filling out a vast mountain of paperwork. One of the forms is an Immigration Form, for this child is to come from Guatemala. There is a series of questions to be asked. Of course, how can one ask these questions to a toddler who can't really speak or read, no less. This is how I have her. An immigrant cannot come into the country if they are planning Moral Turpitude. What toddler does NOT plan to commit Moral Turpitude? A toddler is all about trying everything possible, especially everything bad. A toddler is completely Amoral and Egocentric. (One might say, well you, Mulligan are Amoral and Egocentric. I, Mulligan, am not try to Emmigrate into the USA. I am already here. Then there is the phrase about planning for Violation of Controlled Substances. Toddlers put Everything Into Their Mouths. Of course this little monster is going to attempt to violate controlled substances. Even now Mom is attempting to hide marbles, put in outlet plugs, install door knob covers, stash drugs, both over-the counter and prescription, in out of the reach places, and generally create a place of lock-down.

Obviously, this child can not answer this question honestly and should be banned from immigrating to this country, saving the Mulligan Compound from the havoc of a toddler, a female, no less!

Mulligan's second point of economic recovery

If one recalls, my first point of economic recovery was for the dogs of America to go to actually Recover some of the money lost in this economic downturn. The plan was rather simple. Find out the addresses of the Wall Street Financiers/Mortgage Brokers/General Stupid People responsible (this includes people stupid enough to finance too much of their homes.) This info is readily available online by doing a property search. Then go to the homes and with a bright gleaming smile ask for some money. These very smart people got THEIR money out, and hid it under their mattresses or other places and their is nothing like a smiling Mulligan Face to encourage someone to post haste go upstairs and gladly make a very large donation to the nation's economic recovery. This is the very time for dogs banned by so-called Breed Specific Legislation to prove their merit. Pit bulls, rottweilers, german shepherds, jack russel terrierists, dobermans, can all lend their gleaming smiles to this cause.

But another stupid point of this economic downturn is that dogs are being abandoned to shelters. This is ridiculous. Winter is coming and why would a family be abandoning a cheap form of heat? I say a Canine Space Heater in every bed! There is no fire hazard from a Canine Space Heater. I myself am testimony as well that I produce large quantities, from both ends, of naturally humidified healing vapors. Perfect for keeping the room humidified and clearing up nasal and chest congestion, saving money on doctor visits. I produce quantities of dung, which can be dried, and as the early settlers did, burned in wood burning fireplaces, if a home has one. If a home does not have one; then these dog chips can be sold to others or even donated as a cheap source of fuel.

That then is my second point of economic recovery. More dogs in every house. Yes, dogs do require kibble, but I am quite certain that the reduced energy bills from the Dog Space Heater (not to mention the safety) and the reduced doctor bills from the Healing Vapors will offset the cost of the Kibble.

Well, I suppose we are at war, so I shall have to accept it.

I was not a happy dog this morning, my stomach rumbling and gurgling as I waited and watched and dripped saliva from my mouth in anticipation of my morning cup of kibble. Mom would simply not arise from her bed.

Oh, that dastardly time change.

It first reared it's ugly head during the First World War. Many European Countries adopted Daylight Savings Time; no doubt to allow them to avoid tripping into the Trenches. As the United States made a rather late entry into the War, the US only suffered through Daylight Savings time for a short time and then it was ended. Dogs were able to return to receiving their kibble rations on time. Or not; as the Great Depression soon followed and there was not much kibble to be rationed.

During World War II President Roosevelt re-enacted Daylight Savings Time under the name of "War Time." Of course all American Dogs threw their bellies in with the rest to support the war effort and let their kibble time be delayed. After World War II; now here is the interesting part, individual parts of states could decide for themselves what time they wanted it to be. Apparently this caused mass confusion for transportation scheduling. Eventually President Johnson said enough is enough he was tired of Dogs running rampant demanding kibble at dog knows what time and he demand that a Standard be set up, which is what the United States has today.

Now I am left to suffer along with the rest of dogs with hunger pangs today but at least all of Ohio dogs are suffering at the same time. Indiana dogs suffer at a different time. Then I remembered that our great country IS at War. We are at war with Iraq. Yes. I must bear my hunger pangs valiantly and remember how this whole foolishness of messing with time started which was with: "War Time."

Thanks, ACORN, Where do I relieve my bodily functions?

I am in quite a dilemna now, due to the electoral process. In case no one has heard, Ohio is considered a key state in the election. One of the controversies has been ACORN. Now I certainly do respect the right for all to vote but it poses a dilemna for ALL Ohio dogs. Previously, in Ohio, a voter had to give an actual address in order to vote. This could be a single family dwelling, a dormitory, an apartment, etc. Now, however, it has been ruled that a Voter does not actually have to have an Address. For example, it can be: the grassy area in the park on the left side of the swing set where I usually pass out.

I am quite a tidy dog. I do not relieve myself inside the house unless I am sick; which can be forgiven of course. I am allowed to relieve myself freely in my own back yard, which Mom then picks up regularly. On walks, I relieve myself as well. When I Urinate, Mom just lets it flow. If I have a Bowel Movement, then Mom picks it up in a bag and brings it home.

Here's the dilemna for Ohio Dogs: Now, all the outside could be some person's home; a duly registered voter. How can I relieve myself in someone's home? What am I supposed to do on walks now? Hold it? I am a male dog for dog's sake. How can I possibly hold it for an entire walk? Even Pennie, a female, squats at least once on a walk.

Yes, indeed, I am for all to have their vote, but SOME Provision must be made for the Dogs of Ohio.

Dad Training

Sigh.
Dad is just not proving as easy to train as Mom. Perhaps it is because he is not home as much. Or his deep-seated revulsion for dog spit.

Usually Mom, Pennie, and I are the only ones who have the strength of will to face the Morning Middle Lad Send Off. Dad usually hides in bed, pretending that he does not exist and bears no responsibility for this offspring that bears complete resemblance to him.

However, this morning Dad had to arise early to go off to pester some unfortunate soul. When he came downstairs, freshly showered and shaved, he discovered me, Mulligan, firmly ensconced upon the couch. Pennie was sitting in Mom's Lap; the both of them in the Blue Chair; supervising Middle Lad Send Off. Pennie, as a female, must put her paw into the mix as Mom is inadequate at Pup-Rearing, in Pennie's eyes.

Anyhoo, Dad found me on the couch. He said: "Get Down, Mulligan." I didn't even bother to open my eyes. He repeated: "Get Down, Mulligan." I casually got down. Dad went downstairs to retrieve something. I got back up on the couch and wound myself back into a tighter Mulli-Ball.

Mom and Pennie continued to bark commands to Middle Lad, in the usual Middle Lad Send Off Routine: "Deodorize your mouth. Deodorize your armpits. Do you have your saxophone? Did you really brush your teeth? Put on your shoes. Where are your shoes? Where is your Epi-Pen? It's supposed to be on the hook. Well, I don't know, did you look behind the bathroom door? You had your Epi-Pen last night, maybe it's in your taekwondo bag which you left in the van."

Dad returned from the basement: "Get down Mulligan. Get DOWN Mulligan!" I got down. Dad went to find his shoes. I got back up on the couch.

Dad and I went through this scenario seven or eight times. I just don't think he gets it. Eventually one would think that he would finally realize that it is not in his best interest to keep saying "Get Down Mulligan," and he is just wasting valuable time he could be using getting himself out the door.

Numbers. Can't count on them.

Last night was a most enlightening even spent with the usual torture routine of 7th Grade Homework. I do wish that Mom would let me take more of a part in it. I am certain that with my instinctual herding abilities and gleaming canines that Middle Lad would get his Homework done in short order. Yes, with me sitting at his side, all his ADD focus problems could quickly be brought into alignment. As soon as I saw him lose the least bit of focus, just the hint of a smile from one of my large front teeth, or perhaps the slightest rumbling from my throat would get his focus back.

Last nights subject that was causing so much trouble was mathematics. I was not the least bit surprised after I learned that numbers can be, get this, Rational and Irrational. Excuse me, but have I not always been taught that numbers are cold, logical; that numbers do not lie? Oh, no suddenly I realize that numbers can be Rational and Irrational. Numbers can be subject to whims, flights of fancy, emotions.

Well, that sure explains a lot. I never quite understood that favorite playground joke: "Why is six afraid of seven? Because seven eight nine?" (Eight, ate, it works better said out loud.) And the number thirteen. Why is it considered unlucky? Obviously the number three has a deep seated animosity towards being behind the number one. When it is, it causes things to go awry.

What can a dog count on if numbers can be Irrational? There are mornings when I just don't feel full from my morning ONE cup of kibble. Now there is an explaination. ONE must have had some emotional turmoil going on and didn't feel up to giving me a whole ONE cup. What about dogs and humans who are on a strict diet? If the numbers are feeling particularly vexsome that day; the 1500 calories eaten may turn into 5100!

My dog brain has been pounding with the great terribly implications of Irrational Numbers. Were Numbers created by women? Do numbers get PMS? When Mom bakes cookies it is almost like a ritualistic religious experience. I always thought this was because she relaxes baking and takes pride in turning out perfect home-baked morsels of goodness. Perhaps it is really a numbers game. If she does not perform the perfect rituals for the numbers, then the oven numbers may decide to change from baking at 375 degrees to 753 degrees.

With Science and Mathematics entwined, is the world safe with Irrational Numbers? Is it safe to let Irrational Numbers get into the hands of Terrorists? The world relies on numbers and suddenly I have discovered that the numbers just may decide they don't want to add up.

Progress Book for Parent Training

The Tax-Payer Funded Public School that Middle Lad goes to has a tool called Progress Book. Some other districts have something similar called Ed-Line or Black Board. It is an on-line tool that allows the students and the parents to access grades and assignments as they are posted; if the teachers choose to post them. For Middle Lad it has turned into yet another Torture Device as Mom can with the flash of her keyboard discover whether he has turned in assignments and also prove that his empty plan book should be brim full of homework which he should be dutifully completing instead of playing the Wii.

I propose that there should be a Progress Book for Parent Training. I am to fed one cup of kibble at 6:10 am and 6:00 pm. My water bowl should then be filled; or the toilet seat lifted. Then I like to go outside to announce to the world that I, Mulligan, am awake and ready for the day. If it is raining, I prefer Mom to stand waiting by the door, watching so that as soon as I relieve my bodily functions I can be whisked inside.

There are hundreds of uses that us dogs could have for Progress Book, then we could graph out our Parent's Progress and visually display to them in what way they need to improve in their training. Just as with Middle Lad; there could be no dispute over whether he turned in that Health Wellness Packet. A zero in the walk assignment for the day would HAVE to be made up as it would effect the final grade.

No Clicker Parent Training

I just don't think I am going to be able to Clicker Train my Parents. When I first arrived here; I was able to Clicker Train Mom. It was great. I would take her for walks and whenever she could not keep up; I would indicate to her that she needed to do better. Then she would click herself as punishment, and give me a treat. When people or other dogs would walk by and she would get distracted she would do the same thing. Click the Clicker to bring herself back into focus on MY Needs and give me a treat to ask for forgiveness that she may have wanted to stop and say "Hi" or be friendly or some such nonsense.

Unfortunately, Dad was unable to be Clicker Trained. He has a terrible aversion to Body Fluids. He considers Dog Slobber to be a Body Fluid. I produce large quantities of Dog Slobber, especially when receiving treats. The Parent Trainer mentioned perhaps we should go back to Clicker Training, but I just don't think it is going to be manageable. The Parent Trainer said "We All Have to Be On the Same Page." I think I am just going to have to accept Dad's limitations and accept that I will never be able to Clicker Train him. There are other methods of Parent Training and I am confidant that as I attempt to re-train my parents I will be able to find some satisfactory compromise to bring their behavior into line.

Parent Training going well so far

Parent Training is going well so far. I am training Mom to hand feed me my kibble while I lay on a blanket in the Living Room. How cool is that! No one else gets to eat in the Living Room, much less laying on a blanket being hand fed.

Parent Training

The Parent Trainer came to see me today. She is going to help me to train my parents so that I can handle them better. It is good for me because I am a. granted a stay of execution and or b. don't have to go live with a person better equiped to handle a dog with such a stellar personality.

My parents were not on their best behavior for the Parent Trainer. They showed much anxiety over my behavior and ignorance of how to respond to my commands. I do hope that by working with this Trainer I will be able to train my parents as I have about had it with them.

I'll have to stick to singing

I have a beautiful singing voice. I decided that I would like to expand my musical repetoire. Middle Lad has a soft case for his Alto Saxophone. I carefully opened the zippered pocket on the outside of the case with my amazing almost opposable thumbs and delicately refined teeth. I removed the alto saxophone mouthpiece, and was pleased to discover there was indeed a reed attached. To maximally annoy Mom, and to warm up; Middle Lad often blows through just the mouthpiece before he attaches it to the saxophone neck and body. I thought I should try that first, too.

Alas, drat those loose lips. Indeed, a dog cannot play a wind instrument. I tried as hard as I could, but I just could not form my lips and mouth into the correct position, the embouchure, is the correct musical term.

In my anger and frustration I decided to eat the mouthpiece.

Mom discovered pieces of Alto Saxophone mouthpiece on the living room floor.

She was a bit perturbed. Middle Lad has a band event this weekend. Mom was in a panic for the family does have a second saxophone but it is at the repair shop. Fortunately, Middle Lad, who cannot remember to zip his pants or brush his teeth, did take out his second mouthpiece from the second saxophone before it was sent for repairs. Middle Lad magically produced the second mouthpiece, but alas, nothing could be done for the mouthpiece (now mouth pieces) that I had mortally wounded.

Apparently I am back on "Mom's Naughty List."

Proof of Aliens

Mom took me to the vet. There is nothing wrong with me other than a wretched personality and a deep seated hatred for humanity.

I have discovered definitive proof of Aliens. Vets. Vets are always Probing. When people are kidnapped by aliens what is the first complaint? A thorough probing. Us dogs could have told them that without all the crop circles and the stupid slack-jawed expressions.

Trash

Yesterday I ate some lovely trash from the back yard. Then I threw up all over the carpet and floor. Still, that trash was worth it.

Today, Middle Lad must have eaten some lovely trash at Boy Scout Camp. Mom had to go fetch him home because he threw up. I wonder how lovely the trash is at Boy Scout Camp?

All dogs be cautious! Stay at home!

I, Mulligan, despite my love for walks, think that it is best in light of the current Economic Crisis, that perhaps I stay safely within the confines of the Mulligan Compound.

According to an article in the Enquirer, that being the Cincinnati Enquirer, not the National Inquirer; Americans are being forced to give up their $4 and $5 dollar super Expresso Double Mocha Latte Coffee drinks for just plain old Java. In fact, some are even being forced to take the drastic measure of foregoing Starbucks and other such Coffeehouses altogether and, Gasp!, brew their own.

I, Mulligan, do not want to be out walking when a Suburbanite, used to waking to a delicious $4 Extreme Coffee, is out driving their car after making their own tepid, under- or over-brewed coffee at home. Think of the school children! Not that I particularly care for school children; but Middle Lad scoops my 6:00 pm cup of kibble. Oldest Lad is well in danger from an enraged driver who awoke to discover a flooded countertop because he failed to push his carafe into the correct position the night before; and now must drive to work de-caffeinated, paying no heed at all to the bus red flashing lights. Oldest Lad will be run over as the driver zips past the bus; thinking only of at least getting perhaps a "regular" $2 cup of java.

What of the college students? Starbucks and the other Coffehouses have had High School Students addicted to Triple Mocha Expresso Lattes since they were Thirteen. These students have now moved on to college age. A parent with a rapidly plunging retirement account may insist that money go towards buying such discretionary items as tuition and books instead of coffee coming in double foam cups. These poor souls probably don't even know what a coffee grinder and Mr. Coffee machine look like; much less how to go to the dorm bathroom and fill up a carafe with (gasp!) water from a tap. The students will fail out of college.

Yes, I, Mulligan, feel Road Rage coming on. All dogs must remain on alert for drivers feeling the effects of over-brewed and under-brewed coffee. The rage of drivers who have left a kitchen covered with coffee dust left by a mis-firing grinder. The rage of drivers who are completely decaffeinated because they did not seat their carafe properly the night before and their kitchen is now flooded. Yes, Suburbia must be on alert.

Another new solution for the economic woes

I, Mulligan, cannot take credit for inventing this solution, but I do believe it has merit. On CNN.com I read that in the state of Nebraska; the age limit for the "Safe Haven" law has been removed. Many teens, instead of the usual infants, are being dropped off at local hospitals, in particular Creighton Hospital, in Omaha.

With the Stock Market plunging, and prices for gas and food rising, what better solution than to offload a teen or two? It would be well worth the price of the bus tickets or plane tickets to Omaha. Teens consume way too much gas. They insist upon a cell phone; and not just the bare bones plan, but one that has text messaging and all the stylish features. Then of course there is the price of food. Oldest Lad has recently moved out to the Shelter and our family has gone from consuming 4 gallons of milk per week to ONE gallon of milk per week. The truck was recalled and Dad doesn't even have to replace it right now as there is no extra driver with band, swim team, jazz band, etc needing a car for transportation.

Offloading one or more teens to Omaha would mean that more Dogs would be able to stay in their homes, not being sent to shelters. The savings of getting rid of the teen would probably more than make up the mortgage payment; keeping the family and subsequently the family pets in the home.

More missing cupcakes.

Mom: "Mulligan! I distinctly recall that there were 24 chocolate iced cupcakes on the counter for Little Lad's birthday. I had them barricaded behind the Kitchen Aid Mixer and other large kitchen applicances. At this moment there are only 11 cupcakes left, plus some crumbs on the counter."

Mulligan: "Oh, Mom, that is terrible. Those poor cupcakes. They just must have disappeared. Just like Monday's Stock Market. In fact; it was probably part of the same phenomenon. The poor cupcakes were probably just another tragic loss to be blamed on the sub-prime mortgages. It is truly terrible that even home-made cupcakes cannot keep their value in today's economy."

Mom: "Mulligan, I do admire your cleverness, but can you explain the crumbs crushed into the Boy's Office Rug?"

Mulligan: "Oh, that is probably when the 13 lost cupcakes were commiting suicide. Obviously, lacking arms, they were unable to open a window to jump."

Mom: "Mulligan, you have some chocolate underneath your snout."

Cupcake Thief

This is terrible. Someone broke into the house, while Pennie and I were Inside of the House, and stole ALL the cupcakes from off of the counter. How could I not hear this happening in my very home?

Just another discrimination.

I am a dog of many fine qualities. Extreme intelligence. Astounding Physique.
Unfortunately I am, shall we say, a bit difficult. I have no hopes of ever attaining those coveted initials for Canine Good Citizen: CGC. I shall never be a Certified Helper Dog.

Middle Lad is busy studying for a Language Arts Quiz. Now I discover yet another reminder of my complete failure, in the eyes of humanity, as a dog.

Helping Verbs. Yes. The English Language itself has Certified Helping Verbs.

Be, am, is, are, was, were, been, have, has, had, do, does, did, can, could, shall, should, will, would, may, might, must, being.

That's the list. The rest of the verbs are not Helpful.

I wonder how that makes many of the other verbs feel.

Rescuing. Swimming. Just to name a few.

Oldest Lad was busy RESCUING the drowning victim by SWIMMING through the 9 foot waves in the total darkness. Rescuing and swimming were obviously just sitting around drinking Margueritas on the shore while WAS, happened to be doing all the HELPING.

Can we get the ACLU to work on this?

Insufficient

I, Mulligan, am an impressive specimen of dog. Sigmund Freud, the inventor of the Ego, would be astounded at the size of my Ego. My muscles ripple as I walk. I am highly intelligent and able to use my paws as tools. When riding in the Van with Mom, I sit in the passenger seat next to her, listening to her conversation and offering appropriate murmurs to her talking, displaying that I even have a sensitive side.

Despite all these qualities, I am apparently Not Sufficient. How can that possibly be? Is Mom going through some strange stage of the beginnings of Mental Pause? Has she manipulated Dad into going along with her? Mom has turned into a Nut. Yes. Mom is in iminent danger of the Squirrels of Suburbia carrying her off to feast upon for the entire winter as the most bountiful, fat, Nut they have ever perchanced to discover.

Yes, I, Mulligan, am Not Sufficient. Dare I speak of it? I am gaining a sister. A human sister. An import model. From Guatemala. What could possibly possess Mom to want another child. Am I not sufficient? Are not the Lads sufficient? What makes this Woman so crazed and perverse that her great maternal instincts drive her to want another child?

Oh, I certainly don't mind benefitting from SOME of Mom's Maternal Instincts. There is something to be said for a perfect made-from-scratch sugar cookie. Even a well-made bed with crisp, clean sheets is nice. I do appreciate the Maternal Order that Mom brings to the Mulligan Compound. Dad is extremely capable; but Mom's very Momly-ness heightens the family experience. Home-made Broccoli Cheese Rice Casserole, with real cheese sauce, not canned cheese sauce, or cheese whiz (although Cheeze Whiz is a lovely product,) but bechamel with sharp cheddar added. Excuse me while I wipe up the drool.

Why then must all this be damaged by adding another child; a female, no less, to the mix? We added Pennie. Pennie is female. Couldn't we just get another female dog from the shelter? I have only a few months to live in denial as the final paperwork is processed. Then a ranting, Spanish-crying toddler will enter the Mulligan Compound.

Messing with Mom

I am rather irriated at Mom. I believe she is also rather irritated at me, but that is beside the point. Plus, Mom has not quite recovered yet from the whole stress of the week without power. And the stress of her gender.

Today, to further add to my irritation, Mom took Pennie for a walk. A long walk. Mom did not take me. That is just not right. Normally I go for a walk. Then Mom goes for a walk with Pennie. Me first. Then Pennie.

This is what I have been doing: Standing over and Staring at the Floor Duct in the Utility Room.

Mom vacuumed the Utility Room floor and rugs and rearranged the shoes today. Since then, I keep returning to that Floor Duct that spits out cool Air-Conditioned Air and I stand over it and stare at it. I have never done this before.

Dad is out of town. Heh, heh. I just know that tonight Mom is going to be thinking about that Air Duct when the house is all dark and wondering why I kept paying so much attention to it.

Hurricane Ike Ravages Cincinnati!

The Mulligan Compound has been suffering the terrible ravages of Hurrican Ike. Oh, it's been all over the news about the great terribleness that Houston has suffered. But what about Cincinnati? Has anyone paid any attention that Hurricane Ike traveled all across America up to Cincinnati causing great suffering to me and my family here at my 0.6 acres of Suburbia?

I have been left to suffer alone. Where has been the National Guard with an Abrams Tank for my Intersection? Where are the Rescue Groups anxious to adopt a Cincinnati Ike Dog? Where is the Red Cross passing out emergency Kibble Rations to me and my family?

Day One. Sunday. I have never known such wind. I do not like wind. I have rather over-sized ears and the wind causes them to raise up and become great air-foils. I am certainly not afraid of becoming a great Mulli-Air-Foil and flying about observing the world from on high. No, unfortunately, Sir Isaac Newton invented gravity and therefore it's the landing that I worry about. Great gusts of wind are blowing branches and leaves and causing intermittent power surges.

A big boom is heard and a tree breaks and falls upon the the power lines stretching across the back yard. The sanctity of the Mulligan Compound has been breached. There is no more power.
By night fall over 800,000 people, 90% of the Cincinnati area, are without power. School is cancelled for Monday. Strict orders are given to the family to not open the refrigerator.

Day Two. Monday. No power. The winds are gone. The neighbors emerge and begin to clean up. At this point, Mom and Dad realize they might as well eat up what's in the refrigerator. Grilled Hot Dogs and Hamburgers for Canines and Humans alike! The rest of the food is thrown in the trash. I stare forlornly at a dog's dream: an open refrigerator; but alas it is empty!
Power is restored in all the neighborhood EXCEPT the Mulligan Compound and 12 surrounding houses.

Day Three. Tuesday. Storm Surge. The Storm Surge hits as the condensation from the refrigerator spills out onto the kitchen floor. Fortunately, my webbed feet keep me from slipping and Mom is able to clean it up with towels.
Little Lad and Middle Lad discover that they have many Wii-Weather friends as our home is no longer a "destination." Without power to the Wii or XBox 360 no friends come calling.
Relentless, the countdown to Oldest Lad leaving for College continues. He finds a friend with Power and heads to his house to do laundry. Fortunately Mom washed all Oldest Lad's bed linens and towels last week, in the old days when we still had power.

Day Four. Day Five. Day Six. It's all such a blur. Still no Abrams Tank. No National Guard; for it is busy deployed cleaning up Hurricane Gustav in New Orleans; not passing out Kibble to Powerless Hurrican Ike Victims in Cincinnati.

Oldest Lad moves out. I hardly notice. HE has power. HE has AIR. HE has HOT Kibble. Mom and Dad attempt to stay at the Dorm as long as possible. Not for a tearful long fairwell, but to enjoy the Air Conditioning and the hopes of a Hot Meal in the Dining Hall. Oldest Lad has no sympathy and kicks them out.

Day Seven. Finally. No the longed for Abrams Tank does not arrive, but the Energy Crews.

The Lights Come On. The Mulligan Compound is Secure Once More.

Off to the Shelter

I am not sure what Oldest Lad has done but he is being sent to live at the Shelter. He didn't eat a couch like I did; at least from what I can tell. Still, he is being sent off to live at the Shelter.

He will be living in a room with cinder block walls. Just like the Shelter I came from.

He will be living with total strangers. Just like me.

It will be coed. Just like my shelter. Instead of neutering all the occupants apparently special First Aid Kits are available for free at the Wellness Center. Wonder what those are for?

Oldest Lad will be on a meal plan for 12 meals a week. Poor Oldest Lad. At least at my Shelter I was guaranteed 14 meals a day. Oldest Lad's Shelter is State Run so there must be funding cut backs.

Oldest Lad gets a small bed, metal frame, minimal mattress, just like mine at the shelter. I do hope Oldest Lad's bed is longer because he can't quite form himself into a tight Mulli-Ball and after that expensive ACL knee surgery he probably needs to stretch out.

Just like at my Shelter, there is Community Bathing and Toileting Facilities.

Just like at my Old Shelter there is a Common Room with very old smelly couches.

And of course, monetary donations are always being solicited to help the Shelter Residents.

I shall have to talk with Oldest Lad before he leaves about how to survive Shelter Life.

Hockey Pit Bulls

Last night I watched the Republican National Convention. I was snuggling with Mom. Mom had no choice of what to watch as her sore foot was being massaged by Dad. She either had to watch what Dad wanted to watch or give up on the foot rub.

I was quite taken by Governor Palin's joke about Pit Bulls and Hockey Moms. To paraphrase: "What is the difference between a Pit Bull and a Hockey Mom? Lip Stick."

Well, this certainly explains quite a few mysteries. How many poor Pit Bulls in this world are actually Hockey Moms? In many parts of the world, even this country, there isn't even access to Hockey. The Pit Bulls spend their life wondering at their alienation; their differences, not knowing that it is because they are actually Hockey Moms.

Is there some test that can be given to a Pit Bull? Can it be taken as a Pup to a Hockey Rink to be determined if it is Pit Bull or a Hockey Mom? This could indeed be a huge untapped resource. Many youth, in our very own country, would spend their troubled lives much more productively, and indeed go on to be respected citizens, if only they were involved in a team sport. These Pit Bulls that are Hockey Moms could be just the ticket to get these youths involved in Hockey. What better motivation to get up for a 5:30 am before school practice than 42 gleaming Pit Bull Hockey Mom Canine teeth ready to drive the Mini-Van?

Conversely, how many Moms are actually Pit Bulls? Is it confined to only Hockey Moms that may actually be Pit Bulls? Or are there some "regular" Moms, perhaps Soccer Moms, or Swim Moms, that are really Pit Bulls? I am certain that there are many of us who wonder if we have met a Pit Bull in our life.

Sometimes I wonder if perhaps my own Mom is really a Pit Bull.

Second Breakfast

The history of Second Breakfast goes back many years. At least to JRR Tolkien's The Lord of the Ring's Trilogy. The Hobbits were always in need of a Second Breakfast. The so-called Elevenses.

I, Mulligan, have been getting up very early of late to get Middle Lad off to school. It is no easy task to get a Middle School Middle Lad with ADD off to school. First I eat my cup of kibble, to fortify myself. Then Mom lets me outside, where I commence barking to let the world know that I, Mulligan, am up and indeed my section of Suburbia is safe. Mom frantically lets me back in and mutters something about "surely the next door neighbor is going to complain again."

After Middle Lad is finally sent out the door, Mom collapses in exhaustion and wishes that indeed she did have a drinking habit; for getting Middle Lad off to school could drive anyone to drink.

Soon it is time to get Little Lad up and ready for school.

Meantime, fair Princess Pennie has been a-slumber with Oldest Lad. SHE finally arises around 10:00 or so, refreshed and keen for a day's adventure.

Mom gives Pennie her cup of kibble. Of late I have (with success) managed to snatch a few well-deserved bites of kibble as Mom is putting kibble in Pennie's bowl. I, who have been up for hours, maintaining the Family Unit, find myself scolded for attempting to fortify my rumbling innards with a few mouths of kibble.

Usually by that point Mom herself has snatched an extra bite of (non-needed) kibble for herself to fortify her day. Perhaps I should just give Pennie ALL the kibble; since my hard labor is so little appreciated.

Mom to Mulligan

Mom, to Mulligan: "Upon the subject of perfect made from scratch sugar cookies; I sincerely hope that after your comments in regard to women and their capabilities that you don't expect me to making you any cookies any time in the near future."

Our Country On a Terrible Slippery Slope

I, Mulligan, is now on the Unforgiven List (Again) for breaking the downstairs toilet. How can I be accused of breaking a toilet? a. I don't use the toilet, except for drinking. b. the seal is broken and a certified plumber installed this new toilet a little over a year.

Therefore:
Our Great Country Is On a Great Slippery Slope Heading Toward Disaster. Yes. I watched with trepidation and fear that Senator Hillary Clinton might become a Presidential Candidate, with the greater fear she could become President; perhaps even by being named as the Vice Presidential Candidate. Then out of nowhere, came the new threat: Governor Sarah Palin being named as the Republican Vice Presidential Candidate.

Are these people out of their minds? Does this world not know what a threat women bring to this world? I thought assuredly at least the Conservative Republicans would understand.

Go back in time.

I ate the aluminum grill pan to Dad's Gas Grill.

I threw up all over a toy called "Gears, Gears, Gears", at around 4 am.

MOM dumped the vomit off the "Gears, Gears, Gears" into the toilet in her sleep-dazed state, and most of the "Gears" came off in the toilet. She picked up all the "Gears" (or so she thought) and put them in the sink and washed them.

Over a period of time the toilet began to back up. Eventually the Plumber was called. He found that lone "Gear." He could not fish it out and instead replaced the toilet.

OK. I admit: I, Mulligan, did indeed eat the grill pan, costing the family over $500 in vet fees.

MOM dumped the vomit and "Gears" into the toilet.

MOM failed to fish out one last "Gear."

The FAMILY used the toilet for toileting purposes, causing it to back up over time.

The Plumber replaced the toilet.

The Family was charged a large amount of Plumber Fees.

The PLUMBER failed to seat the toilet properly, causing the seal to break down and now the toilet leaks.

Again, I admit to eating the Grill Pan. However, I did not do any of the following acts. However, I am still being blamed for breaking a Toilet, when I relieve my bodily functions (except for emergency vomiting) in the back yard or other people's yards.

How is this MY Fault? That is how a WOMAN operates. A woman can twist any and all logic to her purposes. There is no argument that she can not win. I am certain that is why Women make such great leaders. The men are still trying to figure out the Logic Trail that led to the Final Decision.

I have no recourse. Mom is Mom. She holds the secret to things MomLY. She can bake a perfect made-from scratch sugar cookie, the true path to a Male's Immortal Soul.

This great country can not let the evilness that is Woman take over.

Idle Conversations

Scene: Mom and Mulligan riding in Odyssey Mini-Van in Suburbia. Driving to fetch Middle Lad from Boy Scouts. Mulligan riding Shot Gun.
Mulligan: "Mom, can I my Driver's License?"

Mom: "Sure, Mulli, you can get your Driver's License if you pass the Driver's Test."

Mulligan: "OK! I have read the Ohio Driver's Manual. In Dog Years I am over 18 so I don't have to actually take a Driver's Ed Course. I think I am ready."

Mom: "Fine. You may not threaten, cajole, bite, snarl or otherwise intimidate to or actually cause bodily harm to the administrator of the Driver's Test."

Mulligan: "Oh. Maybe I'll just let you drive."

Sandal War

The Sandal War continues to escalate. Today is the first day of school for Little Lad and Middle Lad. The Mulligan Compound is the designated Bus Stop for my section of the Suburbia. Pennie and I take our Bus Stop duties very serious; although she pooped in the front yard! I take care to do my business in the back so that the children don't bespoil the Bus with Poop. I revere the Bus for it relieves me of the Lads, leaving me with Mom and Peace and Quiet and I certainly don't want it to be sullied.

Chewie and Rudy of the Chewie/Rudy Compound sent off two lads to the Bus Stop. Then their Mom came over as well to see the lads off as it is the First Day. She brought over the Wee Little Chewie/Rudy Lad. Todd fell off bleachers yesterday and landed on his face. He looks as bad as a two year old with a broken nose can look. I have to admit I have my suspicions. Pennie is well known for her Nasal Assaults. Heretofore these assaults have only been for cleaning but who knows? She did eat the nose off that poor innocent stuffed clown. Did she get carried away due to the Sandal War? No, it's impossible. Pennie was here all day yesterday. Never once left the yard; and certainly never was near a football field.

Anyhoo. This Chewie/Rudy Mom says: "Can you believe? Four boys and the first broken bone."

Another Outright Attack Against the Family Honor! It is well known that Mom's three lads have broken: Oldest Lad: arm, elbow, toes, leg, torn ACL (knee). Middle Lad: arm. Little Lad: two arms.

So now this Chewie/Rudy Mom is Verbally Insulting my Mom's Genetic Stock! It was bad enough that Chewie ate poor Little Lad's Sandal. But to have the Mom come over and go on about her superior breeding stock is quite another thing. True, the Chewie/Rudy boys are all Athletes, but someone must produce Marching Band Members!

If I could just figure a way out of my Electronic Collar then I could cross No Dog's Land and have it out with Chewie and Rudy.

Sandal War

Tensions continue to escalate as Pennie and I consider how to defend our Honor over Chewie destroying Little Lad's Sandal. Little Lad remains in anguish, wondering what to wear to school. Mom will not allow him to wear his Crocs to school. She doesn't feel that Crocs provide "adequate support upon the playground, especially upon the playground equipment." Since Little Lad spent most of the summer with his arm in a cast AND Little Lad is not one to Suffer In Silence, perhaps Mom does have a point. Little Lad will just have to wear gym shoes until new Sandals can be secured.

Pennie went Up and Over the Maginot Line, crossed No-Dog's Line, and attempted a Mission as a Peace Envoy. Rudy, the Leader of the Rudy/Chewie Compound, is a Jack Russell Terrierist. His Electronic Collar setting is set upon "instantaneous nerve damage" yet he still regularly escapes and assaults the Mail Truck. Peace Talks with Rudy were a complete failure; however Pennie was able to secure a Vaccination Program for all the squirrels, moles and chipmunks in the neighborhood. Pennie was lucky to make it home with her life after contact with Rudy.

At this point Pennie and I have gone back to hurling insults across to the Rudy/Chewie Compound. We do find some satisfaction that we go out on walks on a regular basis. In the three years of my life here I have never seen those dogs go out on a walk. I do hope that Chewie and Rudy realize that the next time their Lad comes over here for a Play Date with Little Lad that we will have to up the ante; perhaps destroying a bike tire.

Terror Attack Upon Little Lad!

Little Lad came home from a Play Date today in Abject Sorrow. Humiliation. Dejected to his very soul. Little Lad was playing across the street at the Compound of Rudy and Chewie. Chewie (aptly named) waged an assault upon Little Lad's Shoes! Yes, while Little Lad was innocently playing, Chewie was waging an all-out terrorist assault upon Little Lad's sandals. Or rather one sandal. I have to admit that Chewie and Rudy do have cause to be under Undo Duress. They live at the home of the Four Lads Born in Quick Succession. There is always an Alarming amount of activity going on at this home with great amounts of play items strewn about the Gated Compound. It is Gated because the parents surounded the entire compound with a fence, in some attempt to maintain order and to keep the boys from leaving at will.

I, Mulligan, must make some attempt to restore Honor. I cannot let this Terrorist Activity against Little Lad's Sandal go without some Vengence. However, in addition to the Fence; Chewie and Rudy also have an Electronic Fence. Day by Day, Chewie and Rudy and Pennie and I face each other across the street, daring each other to cross our fortifications. Mom and Dad have dubbed our line the Maginot Line. Chewie and Rudy have the Seigfried Line. We maintain a peaceful, although rather loud, at times, co-existence across our Maginot and Seigfried Lines, hurling insults at each other, but never crossing the No-Dog's Land that lies between us.

Is this Sandal Incident what shall finally bring us to the brink of all-out war? Will I have to brave not only the shock of the collar, but run the gauntlet of the street that lies between us? And then I could get shocked again, depending upon the frequency of the Seigfried Line. Maybe it will be easier just to send Mom to Shoe Carnival.

Nasal Obsession

The Family is living in fear now, always on the alert for a new strike from Pennie. We always knew that Pennie had an Obsession with Noses. It has always been chalked up to some Maternal Instinct for keeping her Pups, for the Family is sure she considers them her Pups, Clean.

If Pennie gets the slightest idea that a face is dirty, she wrestles the poor victim to the ground and stands upon them. She quickly inserts a Canine Tooth into a Nostril, rendering the Poor Victim Defenseless; for any movement will surely mean a sudden Nostril Piercing Without Benefit of Anesthesia.

Unlike my smooth, silken tongue, Pennie's tongue is akin to a wire bristle brush, thin and rapier-like. Pennie inserts this Bristled Tongue Deep into the Nasal and Sinus Cavities, rapidly cleansing the Sinus Cavities of all material, both foreign and domestic. The poor victim must endure this torture or risk having their very nose torn from their face by her Canine tooth.

Pennie's latest Victim is a Poor Innocent Stuffed Clown. What could cause her to Rip the Nose off the face of such a Happy Creature?

I think it is really a veiled attack against ME, Mulligan. Yes, I think she was sending a message to ME. For this is no ordinary clown. This clown plays my favorite song. Oh, and this is no "cheap" musical clown. It is a wind up clown with a real music box inside; not one of those cheap push on the button and eventually the battery goes dead kind. This Clown plays: "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." My favorite song and coincidentally I have to wonder, how many nights did Oldest Lad cuddle up to this Clown when he was but a Wee Baby, listening to the song that would end up uniting us as brothers!!!

Or: Is it her Snoring? Does she view that as a great imperfection in herself? Pennie Snores like a great Russian bear hibernating in Siberia. Is she in search of the Perfect Nose? Is the whole Family in fear that one night one of us will wake up with her trying to remove the nose from our own face to attach it to her own?

Clean Mouth

Mom packed up a back pack for Middle and Little Lad to take with them to Cleveland. One of the outer pockets was full of individual packets of Wet Ones. I used my almost opposable thumbs, even though my left thumb is still quite sore from it's brutal nail-clipping; to removed all those packets. Then I used my sensual lips and sharp teeth to puncture each packet.

Now my teeth are agonizingly clean as I chewed each individual Wet One and strewed them about the house.

Do the French Read History Books?

The French Men's 4 X 100 m Freestyle Relay Team was Heavily Favored to Trounce the American Team in the Swim event that occured Sunday in Beijing. The French were overheard Bragging about being able to "smash" the Americans.

Have the French never learned from their own Hubris? In the pre World War II Era of 1930 to 1940, the French invested heavily in building and fortifying the Maginot Line. It was indeed a well-constructed defense, lying along the border between France and Germany.

However, when the Germans invaded France in 1940, they went AROUND the Maginot Line, invading through the Ardennes Forest instead, bypassing those well-constructed embattlements all together.

In a similar fashion, the Americans simply Swam Under the French Maginot Line! Or Swam Faster than the French Maginot Line. Or Swam Around the French Maginot Line. Will the French never learn of the danger of Hubris? The Americans set a World Record and achieved the Gold in the Men's 4 X 100 m Freestyle.

Phones for Geeks

Dad has a Fancy Phone. HE likes to think of it as a Bat Phone. The Bat Phone rings when a Victim is Terrible Distress and a Super Hero is Needed. That's not exactly what Dad's phone does. Dad's phone is an IP Phone. An IP Phone is a Fancy Schmancy Internet Phone. If Dad's Phone is connected to the Internet, from anywhere in the US, it can find it's way back to it's Mother Ship. Dad's phone sends messages. Dad's phone is more like a: Pigeon Phone.

Yes, the Bat Phone is for Super Heroes.

For Geeks? Geeks get Pigeon Phones. See a Pigeon Phone is kind of like a Pigeon. It really works on the same principle. A little bit of data is tied to the leg of the Pigeon. Then the Pigeon is shoved into the phone, which is attached to the Cable Lines. The Pigeon flies along the cable lines, or if it is WiFi, then the Pigeon has to Teleport. Then the message is unattached and read. A new message is sent back, and of course the Pigeon knows where to go because it is a Pigeon.

Poor Dad, he thinks his Pigeon Phone is really Cool. I shouldn't complain. It keeps me in Kibble.

Mulligan's Army

bee bee bee beep bee bee beep beep beep beep beep

"Hello, thank you for calling Dial-a-Clone, how may I direct your call?"

Mulligan: "This is Mr. Mulligan, I'd like to order clones of my dog."

Dial-A-Clone: "Why certainly, Mr. Mulligan, I'll need a few samples of skin from your dog."

Mulligan: "Uh, will it hurt?"

Dial-A-Clone: "It's a very minor procedure, Mr. Mulligan, perhaps you can get them while your dog is sleeping. We will send you a special shipping envelope to put them in. How many clones will you be ordering?"

Mulligan: "One Thousand. Frozen Embryos"

Dial-A-Clone: "That's quite a large order, Mr. Mulligan. Do you have suitable Surrogates to incubate these clones?"

Mulligan: "Um, yes, I will keep them frozen and just thaw them as needed."

Dial-A-Clone: "How will you be paying for your order today?"

Mulligan: "Take it directly from my online Merrill Lynch Account. I have liquidated all my stocks, bonds and assets into cash. Here is the account number, 555-55555. Oh, don't be fooled by the different name on the account, Mulligan is my nickname."

Dial-A-Clone: "Thank you Mr. Mulligan, it has been a pleasure doing business with you. Your order will be arriving via Federal Express two weeks after we receive the skin sample from your dog."

There, my plan is proceeding nicely. Dad won't know the Merrill Lynch Account is gone until it is too late. Mom warned him against on-line access and internet safety. I can't use Pennie to incubate my Mulligan's Army because she was neutered before she arrived here. But Mom, yes, Mom can incubate the Pups. Mom doesn't believe in Abortion. While she is sleeping, I shall put my first Platoon of Mulligan's Army into her Womb. When she begins to feel the first wriggles of tiny paws inside her belly she will think the doctors were wrong and she really can have more children. Puppies don't take as long to incubate as humans. Won't Mom be surprised when just a few months into her pregnancy she gives birth to a cute little Platoon of Mulligans. Oh, but it won't be cute for long. Soon there will be more Mulligans. One Thousand Mulligan Sociopaths! The World will belong to Mulligan!

Maternal Betrayal

I, Mulligan, have been betrayed by my own Mother. Who knows what will happen to me now? Historically, those of superior intellect who are Maternally Betrayed go on to lead Horrible Lives, carrying out their own betrayal into the lives of others.

Joseph Stalin, a man of Superior Intellect, a Great Leader of the Soviet Union, was forced by his Mother to join a Theological Seminary. He felt Bitter towards Her his whole life. He went on to cause the death of Millions of his own Countrymen.

Lee Harvey Oswald, also tested with a Superior Intellect. His youth was replete with themes of Maternal Betrayal. She was described as cold-hearted and he was a latch-key child left to fend for himself from an early age. He went on to be involved in the Assasination Plot of President John F. Kennedy.

Yesterday, I, Mulligan, had to go to the vet. The nail for my left Dew Claw was broken. I was taken from Mom and brought back to "The Room." Then I was immediately brought back. Mom was handed a Muzzle.

Yes, My Own Mother Muzzled Me. I Repeat. My Own Mother Afixed a Muzzle Around My Snout and Strapped it Behind My Ears.

I was Sodomized with a Glass Probe while Mom watched.

The Vet came in and said that he COULD give me Sedation or "He could just Cut Off My Nail. Mom Might Hear Me Scream a Little, But It Would Only Last A Few Moments. Then He Would Cauterize It."

Mom agreed to the No-Sedation. Still Muzzled, I was led back to The Room. Mom heard the Screaming. She probably heard the Blow Torch as my Toe was Cauterized.

Then I was forced to go back to her and return home with her. She put my e-collar on me and I am forced to remain here, a prisoner of her Betrayal.

What shall become of me now? What kind of Criminal shall I become?

Rebuttal:

Mom: "Mulligan, you had a Procedure done. A Minor Procedure. If you had maybe cooperated a little, you would not have needed a muzzle. And you needed your temperature taken to find out if you had an infection. OK, I agreed to no sedation. But the Vet said it would just take a few seconds compared to you feeling yucky all day from sedation. Do you have to be such a Big Baby? You know Middle Lad doesn't act this way when he goes to the Allergist? And he has had a lot Harder Procedures done than this, without a Muzzle, without Sedation, and he has never once tried to bite the face off the doctor or nurse."

Mulligan: "I see. So your Maternal Betrayal extends to Middle Lad. What kind of Criminal do you expect he will turn into? I hope you aren't planning on him caring for you in your old age."

Mom, rolling her eyes: "Well, I certainly don't expect to have to Muzzle Middle Lad to take him to the Doctor, either! And why is it that everyone always blames the Mothers anyway?"

Mulli-Fly

The Exterminator arrived 13 minutes early for the appointment this morning. He rapidly diagnosed the Invaders into the Mulligan Compound. Blow Flies. And he went on. He said that the larva had probably crawled their way in from the garage (where we DID keep the trash cans, which we moved outside as soon as we got the Fly, excuse me Blow Fly, Infestation.) Once those cute little larva, assuming fly larva are cute, grew up, they became Blow Flies.

Solution? Death by Gassing. The Exterminator closed off the Utility Room, since that was the Source Room. Then he applied an Aerosol. Is Gassing legal in Ohio? I think Lethal Injection would be more humane, but how does one catch Individual Blow Flies and administer a teeny tiny injection?

In addition, we now have Fly Paper hanging like Crepe Paper all over the house. Too bad it doesn't come in Festive Colors.

I do hope the Blow Flies leave quickly. I am still worried that I will turn into a Mulli-Fly. Then I will find myself attached to a piece of Fly Paper and render myself incapable of searching Mom's purse for gum, or licking cereal remains off the kitchen table, or sneaking Gold Fish (TM) out of Oldest Lad's swim bag. Do my eyes look bigger?

"Suburbia Watch"

Last night was the pilot of an new show that I hope is the only one. It was quite exciting, but didn't I move to Suburbia for a Mundane Existence?

Oldest Lad is a Certified LifeGuard. Picture him in the role of David Hasselhoff from "BayWatch", only sober. Instead of sitting in his Guard Chair, Oldest Lad was riding around the back yard on the John Deere (TM) Lawn Mower.

Oldest Lad is busy mowing. Suddenly, in his ever-watchful peripheral vision he sees Frank, a fellow neighbor running up the street. Something must be wrong. In the Ohio Valley, in August, at this time of day, only TeenAge Anorexic Girls Run. Frank is not a Teenage Anorexic Girl. Oldest Lad stops the Tractor and begins to run Up the Street.

Now, here, insert a picture of David Hasselhoff, instead of Oldest Lad. Oldest Lad COULD look like David Hasselhoff, but he is not supposed to be running yet, due to his knee surgery, so his running is not nearly as perfect. Also, Oldest Lad is, well, he weighs much less than David Hasselhoff, despite eating two-thirds the family budget for food. However, being a Certified LifeGuard, Oldest Lad's Hair flowed PERFECTLY as he ran.

Immediately, Oldest Lad sees what is the matter. It being a Suburban Street, and not a BAY, it is not a SWIMMER in distress, but a BICYCLIST Down. Seriously Down. Unconscious. Blue. Yeah, this was really bad. Seconds after Oldest Lad got there another neighbor, Joe, gets to the scene. Thankfully, Joe is a former EMT. Oldest Lad checks the Cyclist's Vitals and his Airway. It appears that his helmet strap is choking him. Joe and Oldest Lad manage to remove the helmet strap. Dad arrives on the scene. He realizes that he knows who the Cyclist is. He rushes home for Gauze for there is blood everywhere. Plus, Dad is not good with blood and this gets him away from the scene.

Oldest Lad and Joe take care of the Cyclist until the EMTs arrive. By that point the Cyclist regains Consciousness. Still, he is obviously seriously injured. Off he goes in the ambulance.

Stay stuned for "Suburbia Watch" part Two when we all find out what has happened to our Downed Bicyclist, who we know, and we have the bike in our garage.

"Suburbia Watch" Pupdate: The Downed Bicyclist Spent Two Days in the Hospital. Broken Ribs. One Partially Collapsed Lung. Stitches in the Face and other body parts. NO CONCUSSION because he was wearing his helmet.

Direct Assault Upon the Mulligan Compound!

There is a terrible Incursion into the Mulligan Compound! Directly into my very home!

It is a Plague! A swarm of Insects! The vermin first started in the Utility Room and have Rapidly flown into the rest of the Abode. Flies. Nasty, germ-laden, bug-eyed Flies.

An exterminator has been called for Consult. He shall not be here until Saturday. Who knows what shall happen by then. Will the Flies Swarm Upon Me and turn me into one of THEM?

Will I, Mulligan, be turned into a Mulli-Fly? Oh, the horror! I, Mulligan, trapped inside the giant body of a fly. Calling out in a squeaky voice: "help me, help me!" Yet no one will hear me, thinking it just the squeak of their gym shoes upon the hard wood floor. Flies don't eat. Flies dissolve food with their own saliva and then suck up this mass of spit-dissolve food with their long proboscis. No more Kibble Chunks for Mulli-Fly. My Kibble would be reduced to a liquefied mass of Iams (TM.) Oh, and I do so love the crunchy texture of kibble!

What shall I do between now and Saturday? My staff, Pennie, has run off with Oldest Lad to House-Sit. Like the Europeans of the 1930s, in denial of Hitler's build-up of Germany, Pennie is content to swat the flies away as a minor nuisance. Pennie is due for her Annual Report very soon and she will NOT be receiving a good evaluation.

Subjective Adjective Ownership

Oldest Lad has spent the last two days at Orientation for his Freshman year at University of Cincinnati. It took two days for the University to decide which way to Orient him. He did not reveal to me whether he will be: upside down, right side up, side-ways, or otherwise oriented while he is in attendance at that fine establishment.

My overall concern however is that to most of the United States, if not the entire World; there is only ONE University in the state of Ohio. That of course would be The Ohio State University. The Ohio State University is always named, and referred to as THE Ohio State University. It is not Ohio State University. It's proper acronym really should not be OSU, but TOSU, or TheOSU.

Which brings to mind: Does The Ohio State University OWN the word "THE?"

When I write, must I be paying royalties to THE Ohio State for each time that I use the adjective, The?" Obviously that could get quite expensive for writers but would turn into a quite lucrative business for THE Ohio State.

Pawsonally, I am quite proud of Oldest Lad for being accepted at University of Cincinnati. He wants to major in Criminal Justice, and University of Cincinnati has the 3rd ranked program in the United States. Not such small potatoes for a non-adjectived University.

If THE Ohio State gets to own "The," then what about UC? Doesn't University of Cincinnati also deserve it's own Adjective?

How about A University of Cincinnati
or THAT University of Cincinnati
or An University of Cincinnati
or THIS University of Cincinnati?

It's not as if THE Ohio State is some Ivy League School for Pedigreed Off-Spring. It's a State College, just like University of Cincinnati, and Ohio University. Even Mutts like Oldest Lad had the scores to go there, he just WANTED to go to the non-adjectived University of Cincinnati.

Religious Right Dogs

Pastor Max was at Church again today. What a Do-Gooder. I think I am going to have to convince Mom to changes Churches. Or stop going completely.

Pastor Max started out fine enough. He was found on a back road in Tennessee. Homeless. Tick Ridden. Came to Ohio and almost died of Parvo. I guess that was when he Got Religion.

Well Pastor Max was back at Church today giving the Children a Sermon. I am soooo tired of hearing about Pastor Max and all that he does so wonderful in the world. Hey, I work on Sunday mornings too, guarding the Mulligan Compound.

Now Pastor Max has learned to Pray. Yep. Pastor Max's Mom put a Chair up on the Altar. Max stood right in front of the chair. Then Max's Mom told him to pray. He put his front paws and legs onto the chair seat, then put his head down on top his paws, in a nice reverant position. Then his Mom gave him a treat. (Even Pastor's get paid.)

Now that Mom has come home and once again told me all about how wonderful this Do-Gooder Dog is, what does she expect out of me? I am who I am. I just don't think that going to Church would change me. Not that Mom COULD take me to Church, because I would probably bite someone. I AM remorseful for my sins -- after I am caught.

Burning down Suburbia

The Mulligan Compound has been under Terror Threat Red all day! Next door, the land adjoining the Mulligan Compound was Afire, Ablaze! Just Two Weeks ago this Neighbor attempted to sell bits of her Mortgaged Property in a Yard/Gargage Sale. Apparently she was unsuccessful. She just managed to sell off old toys and clothes. Today she took drastic measures! She and an influx of her close kin felled a giant tree in the front yard and set it afire in the driveway!

This is NOT proper Suburban Activity! I do NOT live in California where it is expected that on occasion one's neighbor's trees will suddenly burst into flames!

Mom and Dad have no Evacuation Plan or Shelter Plan for a Suburban Lawn Fire. In fact, during all of this Mom decided to give me and Pennie a BATH in the driveway, forcing us to breathe the choking fumes and burning ash. My very health was being put at risk just so Mom and Dad could have the excuse to have a "hose handy" and be out in the yard to watch and observe the antics next door. I saw through that ploy. I was but a pawn in their peeping-tom tactics.

Dad, ever the outgoing salesman, did make an inquiry into the tree-felling-burning ritual. Apparently this viscious sapling had used it's roots to invade the home plumbing pipes in an attempt to reach free water. This terrible plot was uncovered when the basement sewer drain backed up into the basement. The punishment was quick and severe. Death to the tree and burning at the stake to all it's remains.

After my bath, Mom did realize that if I remained outside, my freshly washed wet fur would end up smelling like smoked dog. I was allowed access to the house. Here I pace, wondering what other terrors threaten the Mulligan Compound. Controlled burns are for the Forest, under control of the Department of Forestry, or other Certified Burners, not Suburbanites with a propane tank and a desire to burn their own driveway (and possibly their adjoining neighbor.)

Disenchanted nerds

Little Lad and Middle Lad finished their Lego Terrorist Training Camp. I didn't mind so much that Little Lad learned to Engineer his own Nuclear Reactor out of Legos. I drew the line when Little Lad constructed his own DOG out of Legos. There are toy robotic dogs all over the market. But not self-constructed Dogs made by the ultra-evil mind of a seven year old boy. Fortunately, no Legos were allowed to leave the camp, and the Dog was taken apart, hopefully to never re-generate.

This particular Camp was supposed to generate an interest in Engineer, Science and Math; areas in which the United States is facing a critical shortage in the upcoming years. In other words, this was "Nerd Camp." I suppose even Nerds must have a place to go in the summer since obviously they aren't going to Football or Cheerleading Camp. It just worries me; all those young Nerds together, engineering things out of plastic parts. What Terror were those little brains creating?

Which brings to mind of course the War on Terror. Is that how the Terror Training Camps in the Third World Countries Started? Did the Nerds in the Third World Unite? In the United States there is plenty for Nerds to do: Marching Band. Video Gaming. Going to College and then just staying there forever. But what about those Third World Nerds? Were the Terrorist Camps really just started by Dis-Enchanted Nerds, without the opportunity to do Marching Band, banned from Video Games and the Discovery Channel and without Lower much less Higher Education to satisfy their Nerdly Minds? Did the "Cool" Camp Counselors then feed on the need for the Nerds to be "part of a group" and get them to engineer and build implements of mass destruction for the purposes of taking over the world?

I must keep a careful eye on Middle Lad and Little Lad and all their Nerdly Friends. Who knows what they are capable of bringing home in their back packs.

All About Me. Period.

I am a complex dog. As such I have complex needs. When I feel the need to sit on Mom's lap, I expect her to sit down and hold me. When I want a walk, I bring Mom one of her K-Swiss gym shoes and expect her to accompany me. When it is time for bed, I want to be let outside, and then go upstairs to go to bed.

I like to sit ON Mom. I like to sit NEAR Mom. If Mom is working on a Crochet Project, I like to sit on the Yarn.

In return I guard the Mulligan Compound. I inspect all packages, back packs and objects for weapons of mass destruction and improvised explosive devises. I clean the table. I clear the counters.

This week Mom has been very busy transporting Middle Lad and Little Lad to their Lego Camp for Budding Terrorists, which is located on the other side of town. When she comes home I must sit upon her.

Sometimes Mom feels that she has needs. Sometimes she even asks me, yes me, to snuggle with her, or sit with her to help her with her needs. No. I am not about HER needs. If she happens to have needs that coincide with my neediness, then that is fine, but I am certainly not going to take time from my busy schedule just to fit in her needs on their own merit.

I have my suspicions.

I am worried, suspicious even, about this new camp that the Middle Lad and the Little Lad are attending this week. I am quite certain that it is actually a secret terrorist training camp for American Youth. Really, American Youth are quite behind other countries in their terrorist tactics training, so I should not be surprised that this should be one, under cover.

Middle Lad is learning to make Lego (TM) Robots. Little Lad is learning fundamentals of engineering using Legos (TM.) The first clue that this is not a "normal" camp is when one views the campers. Oh, this is not the pre-football player and pre-cheerleader crowd. Nope. This is the pre hack-into-the-Nuclear-Regulatory-Commission-Computer by the age of 16 kind of crowd. The kind of students that ends up in Marching Band. Or Orchestra.

What I don't understand is why innocent play things, Legos (TM), can be put into the hands of children, only to be turned into non-toys, which will inevitably lead to the construction of implements of destruction.

I am certain that as I write, Little Lad is constructing a miniature Lego (TM) Nuclear Power Reactor in his bedroom. To him, this is a simple solution to the constant battle of being told to put out his light at bed time. Going to Lego (TM) Engineering Camp give him the tools to implement his plan. With his wee lispy voice, I am sure it will be easy for Little Lad to secure some enriched Uranium for his Reactor. Yes, he'll just call up the Three-Mile Island Chemical Company and in his Wispy Little Voice, which no woman can resist: "May I Pleassssse have ssssixxxxx poundsssss of enriched uranium? Thesssssse are my Mommiesssss credit card numbersssssss." Soon enough a package will arrive by UPS and Little Lad will be able to read books far into the night. Or if he gets mad enough, build something Far Worse.

I, Mulligan, really don't know what to do to about this great terror that is going on in my own household. I do have to be thankful that the Lads are Otherwise Occupied when they play with Legos (TM) and that leaves Mom for me. And really, the type of Campers that ahem, go to these camps, well, don't they deserve SOME kind of camp for their type? We can't all be Stunning Specimens of the Species, such as I am, who would go to a "Perfect Body" camp, or "Camp Muscle Dog."

Simon and Garfunkel and Mulligan

There is a famous "Simon and Garfunkel" song, from when the duo were still best buds, called "Cecelia."
"I got up to wash my face, when I come back to bed, someone's taken my place."
If Dad is not yet retired to bed, then his side of the bed is open, available even. I, Mulligan, see no reason why I cannot occupy that spot until Dad is ready to come to bed. When Dad is away on business, that is where I sleep. It's not like I stay there permanently. As soon as Dad comes to bed, then I move to the other side of Mom, and we all "Spoon," making a Mom-sandwich, Mom in the middle with Mulligan and Dad as the bread on either side.

Dad raises a great large fuss if he finds me on his side of the bed. One would think that some shenanigans had been going on. He makes a great show of sending me over to my rightful place.

In my ongoing quest for Alpha, I see this as just another failing of Dad, another reason for me to assume my rightful role as Alpha of the family. I, Mulligan, am able to concede that there is certainly no harm in allowing other opinions. It is certainly OKAY with me to move to the Other Side of the Bed to let Dad THINK he is getting the upper Paw. Mom is Mom and I, Mulligan, have not lived here three years to not realize that with Mom no man nor Dog will ever get the Upper Paw. Mom is a separate entity, out of the Alpha chain of command. My ability to realize this simply fortifies my bid for Alpha.

Mom requires a Gentle Paw. Dad has no Gentle Paw. I, Mulligan, am a brute by my very nature, but indeed I can be quite charming if the occasion arises.

In 1944, Hitler based his entire defense of Europe on the assumption that the Allied Invasion would come at the Pad de Calais. This offered the shortest Channel crossing from England and the most direct path across France and the Low Countries into the heart of Germany. What did the Allies do? The Allies invaded South of the Pas de Calais. They had a longer Channel crossing, and a longer invasion path across France. But history has made obvious what was gained.

I, Mulligan, like a true Dog meant to be a CEO, a Leader, knows how to go around, to plan, to CONCEDE even, when necessary.

I may move to the Other Side of the Bed. This does not mean I am giving up by bid for Alpha. It simply means that I am recognizing and utilizing my resources, one of which is Dad, to their maximum capacity.

Terror Threat in the Mulligan Compound

The Mulligan Compound has been placed at Terror Threat: Orange, for High Risk of Terror Attack.

Yes, Pennie and I are at the Highest Alert Level to guard our 0.6 acres of Suburbia from iminent Danger.

Looking back to Ancient Civilizations, the "Fertile Crescent," was formed between the Tigris and Euprates Rivers. This land in the Middle East called Mesopotamia was much disputed and subject to constant Invasions due to it's fertile farming land and high agriculture amenities. Indeed, this area is often called the "Cradle of Civilization," although with all the warring going on, it is hard to think of those people as Civilized.

In Modern Times, this Fertile Crescent is: Iraq. Iraq. The very nation at which the United States is at war. The very nation that is an Icon of Growing Terror.

Pennie and I have unwittingly created our own Fertile Crescent here at the Mulligan Compound. As creatures of habit and due to the limits of the Electronic Fence; Pennie and I usually fertilize a certain area of the Back Yard. This has created a lush, thick grassy area. Although Mom picks up our Dung regularly, assuredly still the micro- and macro-organisms thrive, creating a lush Fertile Area.

I am certain that at any moment there will be an Invasion of this Fertile Crescent at the Mulligan Compound. Pennie has already fended off Moles, Chipmunks and Mice. In September and October there was an Invasion of Fleas.

What other Terrorists wait to attack us INSIDE the very borders of the Mulligan Compound in an attempt to wrestle away our mortgaged ownership of the Fertile Crescent? Pennie and I must be ever-vigilant.

Not for Sale

Today dawned cloudy and overcast with the threat of rain. Next door in the land immediately adjacent to the Mulligan Compound a far more threatening event was taking place. A Yard and Garage Sale.

What would possess a Home Mortgage Owner to offer up bits of their Yard and/or Garage for sale? I do understand this neighbor is recently divorced, but why not sell off one of her children or upgrade to a more fuel efficient car?

Not one centimenter, inch, foot or yard of the Mulligan Compound is for sale. Certainly not one of the garages. First there is the dilemna of the Attached Garage, which our neighbor has, and of course we have as Garage Number One. How much of the garage does one sell? Two of the walls are attached to the house. Without selling those walls the garage is rather useless as it is not freestanding, regardless of the fact that it might be a Bargain. Yet it leaves the remaining house rather open, exposed even, to the elements, if all four walls are sold. As for our free-standing garage, recently built to house Dad's cars that do not run, I am sure that Dad would suffer a large amount of distress if he came home from his Boy Scout Canoeing Weekend with Middle Lad to discover that his Man Cave, his Poker Party Palace, had been sold and pulled off down the street attached to a trailer hitch.

Have Americans not learned from the Misfortune of Others about the hazard of Yard Sales? Looking back in history, the most famous Yard Sale was the Louisiana Purchase. President Thomas Jefferson purchased 25,611,715,200,000 Square Yards of North American Land from Napolean Bonaparte in 1803. This doubled the size of the United States at that time. (Although it included New Orleans, which turned out to not be such a bargain.)

Napolean Bonaparte went on to suffer exile and a painful stomach ailment, obviously full of regret that he had ever had that stupid idea of a Yard Sale.

Americans should be thankful that President Jefferson got such a bargain in the famed Louisiana Purchase YARD SALE, but it is time for all Suburbanites to learn from others mistakes.

Not one Mortgaged Yard of the Mulligan Compound is for sale, and Pennie and I plan to defend it with teeth and obnoxious barking. And I would appreciate if people attending the Yard Sale next to us would not park their cars in front of the Mulligan Compound either.

Oh dear, I am not supposed to play tag

Mellow Joe Santana tagged me. I am not supposed to play tag because I get too wind up and I always want to be first.


I have to name 4 things I like and 4 I don't. Here goes........

Things I like about this place:
1.) Air Conditioning. If I wanted to be an Outdoor Dog, I would go work for LLBean.
2.) Public School. It gets the kids out of the house and neighborhood so Mom can devote her time to ME. I just wish it was year round in this part of the country.
3.) Teenage Girls. Yep, I don't let anyone else outside the family touch me, but for a teenage girl I am an instant Ladie's Dog.
4.) Anything cooked from the Paula Deen Cookbook.

Things I dislike:
1.) I dislike only having four opportunities to list what I dislike.
2.) Large Men.
3.) Trespassers onto the Mulligan Compound. I don't care if the sidewalk is zoned Public Access. It cuts through my Compound.
4.) Lifetime Television. Those sappy TV shows are stupid and I have to endure them when Mom has a migraine. Give it up. I have no Kindler Gentler Side.


I tag the following:
Louie
Bodhi
that's it so far

Poster Dog

The Woman whom I have loved, whom I have trusted and sleep with every night has stabbed me in the back.

Channel 12 has a contest for a Dog MakeOver. Mom entered me.

First off, why in Dog's name would I, Mullgan, need a MakeOver? I am perfect in every way already. Besides, I would bite any beautician who tried to touch me.

But to make matters worse, I have become the "Poster Dog" on the website. Yep, click on the contest page and whose mug always comes up? Mine. I am not some Dog to be toy with. Maybe I'll send Mom off to one of those TV MakeOvers. Yeah, and then she can be humiliated on TV by those Professional MakeOver people as they make fun of all her jeans and t-shirts and make-up less face and hair turning gray that she refuses to color. Then she can come out looking all different and her friends (or friend in her case) will all clap and cry and she will have to act happy that for the past years she has walked around looking stupid and nobody told her.

Here is the URL. Please copy and Paste this into your browser.
http://www.local12.com/guides/petcare/default.aspx

Stay Away From the Water!

Oldest Lad has used the DVR to record: "Jaws," Jaws2," Jaws3," and "Jaws, the Revenge."

How much of this crazed tooth-ridden sea creature does one Dog have to take?

I am fearful to leave the house; let alone get a drink of water. I let myself thirst to the point of dehydration and then with trepidation approach my water dish and peer closely inside. If I hear no music playing I rapidly stick my tongue in and lap as quickly as possible, expecting at any moment to have my head eaten off. When Mom goes in to use the Indoor Backyard, I am certain that she will emerge without ther backside.

What ever has driven the Sharks to such Mania? Is it Global Warming? Is it the Myth of Global Warming? Is it the Mercury in the Sea that has lodged in their brains, turning them into Eating Machines?

Oldest Lad is working at the YMCA. The YMCA swim team is the Barracudas. Often times Oldest Lad is acting as Life Guard during a Barracuda Practice. At that time there is an entire pool, a whole school, so to speak, of Barracuda, just waiting for a Shark to come along and feed. In his role of Life Guard, it is Oldest Lad's Sworn Duty to Save the Life of the Swimmers. In case of a Shark feeding on the YMCA Barracuda I fear that Oldest Lad would jump right into the pool and attempt to save the poor 8 year old Barracuda the Shark was attempting to Snack upon. The Shark would then turn it's attention to Oldest Lad, seeing him as a far more tasty morsel than an 8 year old.

I do hope that during this Shark Mania Jaws Season I do not need a bath. That would be the perfect time for a Shark to attack me; as if getting a bath isn't bad enough.

I must stay away from the water.

Independence Day

I found Independence Day to be wholly unfulfilling. It rained all day. Middle Lad and Dad marched in the Township Parade but Mom and Middle Lad stayed home. Mom and Middle Lad could have marched but Middle Lad can not get his Cast wet and it was raining during most of the day and threatening rain when not actually raining.

What is Man's obsession with blowing things up? First off, I am a law-abiding Dog. I wear my Hamilton County License proudly. I am vaccinated to the extreme, despite my worries of thimerosol tainted immunizations and the terror of the havoc that mercury is having upon my extraordinary brain. I duly stay within the confines of my Mulligan Compound, defined by the Invisible Fence.

Why is it that Man can not be as Law Abiding? In Ohio it is illegal to set off fireworks. However, one can purchase great quantities of massive explosive devices, sure to create a large crater in one own's back yard, within the state limits. One must sign a waiver when purchasing said fireworks that these fireworks are going to be transported "out of state" to be set off. Right. Men (and perhaps women) purchase EXPLOSIVE devices out of tents and other such temporary quarters from people from whom they would not buy a used car, much less a tomato or even a sandwich.

Then of course, all of Ohio Suburbia is set Ablaze and A-Noise with massive explosions during the Fourth of July Festivities.

After the first hour or so of resounding shock waves, Pennie was rendered Giddy with a tranquilizer. I was put in Mom's bedroom to watch the history channel. I did enjoy "The Revolution" series and then watched a show about Gangs, where I learned some useful tips about being Alpha.

After especially loud explosions, the family left the Mulligan Compound to investigate whom in the neighborhood was setting off the Military-Grade Devices. Mom came back to check on me and Pennie. Pennie was in drug-induced wasteland, comtemplating poetry and singing Beatles songs. Me? I was pacing about Mom's Room foaming at the mouth. Mom gave me one of Pennie's Pills, but of course I do not succumb to mere Downers. I was still wound up two hours later.

Today I am left bleary-eyed and hung-over. I am quite certain the festivities will continue tonight as said neighbor with the military-grade explosives still has all his limbs attached and suffered no major burns. My only hope is that perhaps tonight early into the evening he will render himself unconscious, thereby rendering me some peace.

appetizer: according to the Scribner Bantam English Dictionary an appetizer is "a bit of food or drink before a meal."

hors d'oeuvre: according to the Scribner Bantam English Dictionary, an hors d'oeuvre is an "appetizer, as a canape, served before dinner or at cocktail parties."

It was 4:37 pm. I eat dinner at 6:00 pm. Oldest Lad was making appetizers, hors d'oeuvres, so to speak, for a party he plans to attend.

I ate some. Why then, was I screamed at and sent to suffer in the small dark chamber of the small bathroom? It was clearly BEFORE dinner and I was eating something MEANT TO BE EATEN BEFORE DINNER!

The little morsels were made from Pillsbury Crescent rolls, flattened. Then a mixture of pepperoni, egg, oregano, and mozzarella cheese was spread atop. This was rolled up, then cut into little morsels. Of course by that time it was impossible to ascertain a portion size. The crescent roll really no longer existed. The pepperoni had been all chopped up and mixed with cheese.

How was I to estimate what an appropriate serving size of these tasty little morsels would be? I made my best guess as to what a good serving size would be. My best guess was about three fourths of the total quantity of appetizers. Yes, that seemed an appropriate serving size. Apparently Oldest Lad was in disagreement. Therefore I was banished.

But while banished, I found a piece of bubble gum that Middle Lad had left laying around. Good thing too, he was already in trouble for having a piece go through the washer and dryer earlier today. Mom doesn't enjoy picking gum out of the dryer.

What am I to think?

Mom is married to Dad. As such, she doesn't go purusing any of those Date-finding, Mate-finding, harmonious ever after for only $9.99 a month type of websites.

Yet, in her Favorites List she has the Website for the Dog Shelter. She visits it almost daily, looking at the dogs.

Now what am I supposed to think? Is my place in Mom's heart so tenuous that at a given moment she may just trade me in?

For Dog's sake, Dad has done lots of things to Annoy, Pester, and Bother Mom, but she doesn't have any Man Shelter Websites on her list of Favorites.

Why then does she have the Dog Shelter on her list of Favorites, and visit it so frequently, always reading about the dogs and their biographies?

Is their a Mom Shelter Web Site for me to put on MY Favorites List?

Border Insecurity

As if Dad trying to Kill Me and my Upcoming Lawsuit Against Him was not enough; there is a terrible breach in Security at the Mulligan Compound. Really, it can not be blamed upon Pennie or I, but the blame rests solely upon the Hubris of the Humans.

There is a good 30 to 35 feet, yes, 30 to 35 feet of completely UNGUARDED Border around the Mulligan Compound. This is exactly where the Incursion occured. In the typical Hubris of Humanity; when installing the Electronic Fence; it was assumed that there was no reason for Me to go around to the West Side, the Western Front so to speak, of the House. Therefore, the cable runs directly along the Western Wall of the House, preventing me, or any other Electronic Collared Dog from entering this No-Dogs-Land on the Western Front.

About thirty feet of house wall plus 8 or so feet of yard depth; for Dog's sake, that means this No-Dogs-Land is at least 240 square feet or more of Unguarded Mulligan Compound!

A few weeks ago Mom and Dad began noticing a strange phenomenon. During very large rain storms there water leaking inside Kitchen Fan/Vent. The kitchen was just completely renovated two years ago; this should not be a problem. Mom urged Dad to investigate.

Dad ventured with the 10 foot ladder into No-Dogs-Land. He peered into the outside vent flap/door for the Kitchen Fan. He saw nothing but some chicken wire he installed years before when birds built a nest in there. Mom was not satisfied. Mom ordered Dad back into No-Dogs-Land with the ladder. This time Dad discovered that a Habitat for Hornet Humanity Group had built a very large nest on the other side of the chicken wire. This Hornet's Nest was large enough to hold the vent flap/door open so that when there was a large rain storm, rain would leak in and come down into the kitchen.

Dad pulled the chicken wire with the large Hornet Nest attached to it out and threw it. He descended the ladder faster than he had ever imagined and RAN!

Mom has ordered Dad to proceed back into No-Dogs-Land again. He plans to wait for the Hornets to disipate. Meanwhile, Pennie and I are aghast at what to do about this Unprotected Border. Under our very noses already squatters have built a home inside our own Compound Walls.

Dad tried to Do Me IN!

Dad tried to kill me! On Sunday morning it started out innocently enough. He asked if I wanted to join him in dropping off Middle Lad at Church. Dad doesn't go to Church. (That should have been a clue to me all along.) The rest of the family must be responsible for praying for the well-being of Dad's Soul.

We were stopped at a stop-light and Dad was hoping to make a Right-Turn-On-Red. He had pulled out too far into the next street; and imminent doom came upon us when a car appeared careening down the curvey road we were trying to enter. Dad immediately put the car into Reverse and back-tracked. That's when it all happened. It's still such a blur. We were going at least Four or Five miles an hour when we slammed into a car that had appeared magically behind us. Somehow I managed to survive such a horrendous crash! Oh the speed! Four miles an hour! How can any Dog survive such an Impact!

Quite embarassingly it turned out Dad had taken out the front bumper of the car of a neighbor; as the crash occured a scant two miles from home. Our pick-up truck suffered no damage. However, the trailer hitch of our truck had created a perfect Softball-Sized Hole in the Front Bumper of the Neighbor's Car. At the time the Neighbor's Car was being driven by Neighbor's Son, who was quite upset. Dad sent him on his way to work and went back to our street to explain to Neighbor Dad that it was Dad's fault and not Neighbor's Son fault.

Odd thing was, when Middle Lad got to Church and joined Mom in the Pew, he never mentioned a word.

Now I am in terrible agony. I have the Whip Lash all over my body! I am certain that I must have suffered terrible internal injuries from that Four Mile an Hour Impact! Then there is the terrible Psychological Damage; the Post-Traumatic Stress.

My only recourse is to Sue Dad for all my Damages. Yet I find myself in a terrible Conundrum. I duly checked the Yellow Pages for attornies. I have found several worthy sounding firms but they are all within the City Limits of Cincinnati. Cincinnati has terrible Breed Specific Laws; and while I am listed as a Boxer Mix, I do look rather like a Pit Bull. I am certain that even if I wear my best Coat and Tie that I would be Shot On Sight if I entered the City to attempt to go to one of these auspicious law firms.

Four Legged Pets ONLY Need Apply

Middle Lad returned home from Boy Scout Camp. He proved that a Boy can indeed survive on bread and ketchup alone.

He smelled GOOD. And his stuff; I stuck my big old cranium inside his duffel and just sniffed. I wasn't even doing my usual job of checking for weapons of mass destruction or IEDs (who knows what kind of Merit Badges those Scouts work on at Summer Camp.) I was just enjoying the smell of dirt and humid air and twelve year old boy. After that of course I did get around to checking for what was brought home. I did not find anything amiss. Apparently as a young scout the Middle Lad did not qualify yet for any interesting badges.

Middle Lad did not enjoy his Bunk Mates, the Tent Pets of his Camp Housing Quarters. Upon arrival at the duly assigned camping spot and the duly assigned and provided tents; it was discovered that each tent had pets. Many, many pets. Pets of the eight-legged variety. Middle Lad does not like Daddy Long Legs, Mommy Long Legs, Sister Long Legs, Brother Long Legs, or even Baby Long Legs. The other Boy Scouts swept out their tents on platforms and set up their quarters. Middle Lad refused to even enter one of the tents. Fortunately about 10:30 pm it was discovered that a late-arriving camper had a portable tent in his car. That tent was set up for Middle Lad and his chosen two-legged bunk mate.

Middle Lad professes that he did not miss me at all during his week at camp. That is what he proclaims. However, if he would not sleep with the Spiders, and he is allergic to CATS, and he can't have rodents because he is deathly allergic to their food; then I guess that pretty much leaves him with one choice: Dog. Last time I counted I did not have Eight Legs. Nice to know at least Middle Lad appreciates some things about me.

Maneuveribility test

When Mom drives into to driveway in the Van, if Pennie and I are out, this is what happens: Pennie moves aside in her wild abandonment. She carefully watches Mom maneuver the Van into the garage, maintaining at least Three Feet from the van at all times. Pennie is mindful that Mom can see her at all times.

Me? I get as close to the van as possible. Like I am a Van Traffic Controller, guiding Mom into the garage. Mom is rather short, and even with the seat set at it's highest settings, doesn't have a great view. All she can see of me is the tip of my wagging white tail. She must slowly guide the van in, keeping an eye on the tip of my wagging white tail, to prevent running me over.

At the successful conclusion of guiding the van in with my expert help, Mom must then exit the van as quickly as possible before Pennie and I begin to jump on the van door, furthing etching it's side with scratches.

Mom is sure some day she is going to run over one of my feet. I am not worried. Thus far Mom has only run into the side of the garage Exiting the Garage, not Entering. See? I am an Expert Van Traffic Controller.

State Moving

"Kentucky moves to open season on black bears"

Yep, that is what the headline on the Channel 12 website says. Now regardless of one's feelings about shooting bears, lets focus on the bigger concern, here.

Where is Kentucky Moving?

How can a State Just Decide to Move?

And, did Kentucky take the Ohio River, which Kentucky OWNS, with it?

The Mulligan Compound, my 0.6 Acres of Suburbia lies atop one of THE Highest Points of Hamilton County, just 2 miles from the Ohio River, that is 2 miles from Kentucky.

The Mulligan Compound is a direct slide down to Kentucky. Well if Kentucky has moved, what is going to happen to the Mulligan Compound? At any moment is my humble two-story going to go tumbling off into the Nether-World? Did Tennessee Move UP to take Kentucky's place? Or is there just a big FAULT there now where Kentucky used to be?

Shouldn't I have been given a little more warning about this?

Sledge hammer

I am considering breaking something. At the end of February Oldest Lad had his knee surgery. Not only did he have Nurse Pennie, the Perfect Little Princess Puppy Dog, but he had Mom running up and down the stairs for him, fetching ice and drinks, and meals and "Oh, could you insert a different DVD into the DVD player, for me." She was lifting his leg in and out of his passive motion machine and washing his shorts because he only had a couple that fit over his brace.

Now Little Lad has broken his arm and Mom is fetching ice bags, and movies, and he gets to have a friend over because "you don't have a real cast yet, so I must keep an eye on you to make sure you play quietly." Mom even helps him go to the bathroom. She doesn't help me go to the bathroom. She just opens the back door. Even in the rain, snow and dark of night I must be sent out into the cold back yard to go potty by myself.

Last August, when Pennie bit off part of my ear, Mom paid me lots of attention. She slept right next to me, and brought me a nice soft blanket to lay on. She kissed my wrinkled brow and watched TV with me. Not stupid cartoons, but TV that Mom and I like to watch together.

I think that I must break something. I am not sure how to go about it. I suppose I could ask Pennie to bite off another portion of my ear. I could try Little Lad's trick and fall off the Monkey Bars, but I can't climb the ladder. There is a sledge hammer in the garage. Perhaps I could drop it on my foot. Then I can have the ice and the sole access to the TV Remote and Mom's undivided attention that is my due, anyhow.

Evolution in my own back yard

Just yesterday, a sad tale of human evolution occured. I do not mean to evoke the terrible argument between Creationists versus Darwinists, but sometimes it does rear it's insidious head in my own back yard. Evidently, Little Lad, at age Seven was caught unaware of this fateful argument. Even in Public School, it is not addressed as part of the standad curriculum needed to pass the state-mandated proficiency, achievement, or whatever name du jour is being given, when a Student is the Tender Age of Seven. Despite that, surely, with the proficiency the Little Lad has already demonstrated in Reading and Math he would have come across the Landmark Argument, especially as the Lad does love to Argue.

Regardless, I am proud to believe that I am a descendent of Wolves. It does not bother me to believe that my past ancestors may have been less adept at using tools. I am quite certain the LLBean Backpack was not invented in the Stone Age. Nor Pepperidge Farm GoldFish Crackers. My ancestors therefore would not have needed my great and finely honed skill at opening a Backpack to remove the delectable snack held within, all in the two seconds Mom is not watching before the school bus arrives.

But I digress.

The Evolutionary Dilemna that Little Lad confronted yesterday was the Monkey Bars. They are not Ape Bars. According to the Evolutionary Theory, Little Lad, along with the rest of my family, descended from APES. Little Lad is quite good at traversing the Monkey Bars. He has shown proficiency (although it is not a Public School State Tested Item) at the Monkey Bars at School, at Home, and at the Next Door Neighbor's Rainbow Play System.

However, Evolution Caught Up with Little Lad. Little Lad, the APE-Boy, attempted a new maneuver and Gravity, invented by Sir Isaac Newton, took hold. Little Lad fell to the ground.

Little Lad assumed the erect postion of a true Ape-Boy, cried and cried and found Mom. Mom examined the Ape-boy carefully and determined that perhaps more extensive inspection including the removal of a large co-pay from the family Accounts was required. Unfortunately, Dad was home, and had to be invited along. Dad does not handle Hospitals nor Medical Anything well, but courtesy dictated his Invitation.

All said, Little Lad has indeed broken his Arm. It is the right arm and the Lad is Right-Handed.

And all because he was playing on the MONKEY Bars, when according to evolution, as an APE descendent, he should have been playing on APE bars.

Of course, this further proves my prowess and superiority to the humans.

Justice is Blind, or Hire a Good Defense Attorney

As part of the American Legal System, I, Mulligan, have the right to Legal Counsel. I have chosen well, my friends. My duly hired Attorney is Kirby. I shall not even tell you the exhorbitant hourly fees he charges. However, he is sure to get me off from my most recent Flag-Eating Incident.

Here is Attorney Kirby's defense for me:
"Being a dog and not possessing all the ability to see all of the spectums of light. That YOU DID NOT KNOW you were eating the American Flag. Since dogs cannot see red, you probably thought you were eating a Bogataian flag or maybe even a South New Guineaian flag."

I can not possibly be accused of willfully consuming and then ah, well, the unfortunate natural bodily consequences of getting rid of such consumption, if I did not know what I was eating.

Justice is Blind, or Hire a Good Defense Attorney

As part of the American Legal System, I, Mulligan, have the right to Legal Counsel. I have chosen well, my friends. My duly hired Attorney is Kirby. I shall not even tell you the exhorbitant hourly fees he charges. However, he is sure to get me off from my most recent Flag-Eating Incident.

Here is Attorney Kirby's defense for me:
"Being a dog and not possessing all the ability to see all of the spectums of light. That YOU DID NOT KNOW you were eating the American Flag. Since dogs cannot see red, you probably thought you were eating a Bogataian flag or maybe even a South New Guineaian flag."

I can not possibly be accused of willfully consuming and then ah, well, the unfortunate natural bodily consequences of getting rid of such consumption, if I did not know what I was eating.

Traitor

Yes, I have commited High Treason. I, Mulligan, ate an American Flag. It was small, about 4 inches x 6 inches, but a symbol of this great country, nonetheless.

In the next day or so I shall obviously be doing far worse to this flag.

Pennie doesn't have to act so happy and immediately start picking out my replacement from the Shelter Website as if that website is just a Catalog for Dogs.

I shall await my punishment.

Swimming

The heat and humidity and allergies have hit the Ohio Valley. Why is it that everywhere a Dog goes, humans claim "if you didn't have allergies before, you'll have them once you live here." I am sure that even in the Gobi desert there are mammals allergic to sand.

My eyes are scratchy and drippy and I just can't hold them open. Mom was so worried about me that she slept with me all night on the couch to make sure I didn't stop breathing. Then she figured out it was my eye allergies. She put in some of my eye drops and Voila! I was back to my old self.

Mom set up my little pool in the back yard. Midnight Star is getting her own pool. My Half-Acre of Suburbia, the Mulligan Compound, is full of slopes and valleys. Even my little pool has a deep end. I guess I won't be getting a bigger pool. Anyhow, did Mom really expect me to swim under such conditions without a Certified Life Guard present? Oldest Lad was busy at the YMCA, yelling at children to "Walk!", passing out band-aids, and sitting in the Guard Chair ever present to save a life at a moment's notice. There isn't even a sign posted in my Mulligan Compound backyard saying "No Guard Present, Swim at Your Own Risk." I dared not swim under such conditions. Was Mom really trying to drown me? Everyone knows that one can drown in just a few inches of water. I am sure my deep end was at least six inches deep!

Did she think I wouldn't figure it out/she does love me best

I, Mulligan, was feeling quite left out of all the summer Enrichment. With my overly large cranium I do suffer greatly from emotional storms wandering around in my brain and I was fixed upon the fact that Mom had not signed me up for a single summer enrichment activity. I was going to go through the summer non-enriched. Non fortified. Wasting away.

Then last Monday I perchanced upon a clue. Oldest Lad relayed to Mom the message that the Kumon Learning Shelter had called. Of course Mom laughed and said, "Oh you mean the Kumon Learning CENTER."

That is when my great Mulli-brain began to ponder. All last week Middle Lad was taking Band Workshop. 3 hours daily, for just $60 total (plus $6 for a t-shirt.) By the end of just 5 days the musicians put together a concert. Middle Lad had not one, but two! Alto Saxophone jazz solos. (Yes, the Middle Lad is a burgeoning musician, I help him practice.) Oh, Mom and Dad sat in the crowd bursting with pride as their spawn played in tune and rhythm.

I, Mulligan, however, have figured out the truth. Oh, that Vixen Mom, yes, she sat in that crowd seemingly bursting with pride, yet the reality was that for a mere $60, she had been rid of the lad, sent him to Band SHELTER, for 15 hours during the week. 15 Middle Lad-free hours.

Then there is Taekwondo. "Oh, Little Lad, do you want to do Taekwondo with Middle Lad this summer?" Of course the Little Lad wants to learn to roundhouse kick his classmates. There Mom goes, dropping the Lads off at the Taekwondo Shelter. Yes, to all the world it looks so nice, so maternal, when the reality is that Mom is then rid of the Lads for a few hours.

I have indeed figured Mom out. All this so called Enrichment, is merely Mom employing all her creativity to find Summer Drop-In Shelters for the Lads. Since Mom doesn't find Shelters for me, it must mean that she Loves Me Best because she always wants me around her. She cannot be separated from me for hours on end like she is from the Lads. I wonder? Does Mom have Separation Anxiety when she is away from home, away from me?

Vexsome

Mom, as she cleans up the van because Mulligan has pulled every single item out of her purse and then eaten the few Halls Cherry Menthol Cough Drops she had in the bottom of the purse: "Mulli, you know sometimes it is hard to decide which is my most Vexsome child.
Oldest Lad is always breaking something or doing himself in. Broken arm. Broken leg. Broken toes. Broken elbow. Torn ACL, needing knee repair. Shoulder tendonitis. Large amounts of orthodontia. Oral surgery for extra teeth. Stitches. Swallowed quarter.
Middle Lad of course is always in iminent danger of keeling over due to his food allergies. Then his asthma. His rashes. His ADD. His broken arm and stitches.
And Little Lad. Well, he's just Little Lad and needs my attention.

But, Mulli, I have decided that You, Mulligan, are My Most Vexsome Child. I thought that you were supposed to make my life easier! There is absolutely nothing relaxing about having you in my life.

Oh, and there was absolutely no food in the bag from the craft store so I really don't see why you had to distribute all it's items all over the van while I was pumping gas.

Mulligan: "Well, I find you to be my most Vexsome Mommy."

I will never concede

The race for the Democratic Presidential Candidate is finally over, even though Hillary Clinton has yet to concede to Barack Obama. In that vein, I am putting my family on alert.

I, Mulligan, am letting my family, especially DAD, know that I will never concede in my pursuit for the ALPHA position.

I will never settle for the Vice Alpha Position.

Watch your back, Dad, because you make think that I have settled into the "Dog" position, the "staff", position that you have chosen for me, but I am still in the race, pursuing the Alpha Position. I don't need a certain number of delegates. I just need the knowledge that I, Mulligan, am by my very nature meant to be ALPHA.

Mulligan: The World Energy Crisis Solution

Here, on our very own Dogster, I discovered that I, Mulligan, am considered one of the Gassier breeds. Well, I am a Boxer mix, so I suppose I am a Mixed Gas breed.

This is what Dogster has to say:

"Most canines will, from time to time, suffer from excess methane discharges. There are several ways to handle such exhaust problems."

Yes, my family will agree that if only I could be hooked up to the furnace, then I could readily be used to heat or cool the house.

"Give the dog activated charcoal tablets, which will absorb the excess gas."

And in my case, since I eat everything, the activated charcoal would also serve to absorb the poisons that I consume on a regular basis. Mom has the house completely Child-proof, but alas, child-proof is no match for being Mulligan-proof. The activated charcoal would be helpful for the following items I have consumed: candles, chocolate, sugarless gum, grill pans, Eucerin body lotion, and Prevacid, to name just a few.

"Overeating can cause gas, so try serving smaller portions in more feedings. "

Yes, I would love to eat more frequently.

"Dogs who eat too fast may swallow too much air. Ration their food more slowly or, if you have other dogs, allow them to eat in separate areas. Canines who eat in groups tend to bolt their food so others can’t steal it. "

My current record is I can eat my one cup of Iams in 18 seconds. Mom even bought one of those bowls with the plastic prongs to make it harder. Brought my time up to 22 seconds. Pennie dines slowly, and separately, because she has already bitten off a piece of one of my ears; Dog knows what she would do if I tried to eat some of her food.

"Stop providing fatty, hard-to-digest table scraps and snacks.
Try elevated dog dishes, like those used for large breeds, to help prevent gas buildup. "

The snacks aren't exactly PROVIDED. I take them on my own. Usually they are elevated. Like on the counters, the table, the TV trays, and taken from the Lad's backpacks hanging in the Utility Room.


I guess I truly am responsible for Global Warming! Is it all my gasses? I hope no Environmentalist read this. I really don't want a cork put, ahem, Dog knows where.

Middle Lad to the Shelter

Oldest Lad answered the phone today. It was Kumon Learning Shelter. At least that's what Oldest Lad heard. He passed the message on to Mom, not in the least surprised that Mom had finally resorted to sending Middle Lad off to a Shelter. Only three days into Summer Vacation and Mom was already done with Middle Lad.

I suppose I, Mulligan, should not feel so bad about my years spent at the Shelter. After all, now the Middle Lad is going to the Learning Shelter to brush up on his Math and Reading. Turns out it is not a Full-Time Shelter and Middle Lad will not be Neutered while he is there.

Freedom of Religion

Pastor Max was at Mom's Church again today, giving the Children's Sermon. He sat nicely, let the children pet him and barked "Amen!" at the appropriate time.

Isn't that just sooo special. Max. Max. Max. I am so sick of hearing about do-gooder Max.

Well, maybe I just prefer to keep my religion to myself. Maybe, just maybe I am not a Methodist.

The last I, Mulligan, heard, in this great country there is Freedom to Practice or to Not-Practice Religion. Perhaps I practice my religion without going to church and barking "Amen."

I need a ladder

Now I need a ladder to protect my house from a new enemy! It is raining inside the house! Only this time it is not because Little Lad has broken the upstairs toilet. Now mind you, I still don't understand how the smallest Colon in the house could break a toilet, but that's a different story.

Anyway, it is raining in the house. In the Boy's Office Bay Window. Dad is most upset. He says there is Bad Flashing at the gutters.

Bad Flashing! Why are Ugly Naked People standing on top of the Roof over the Bay Window? How can I, Mulligan, possibly protect my Half Acre of Suburbia, my Mulligan Compound, from Ugly Naked People standing a good 20 feet over my head? I mean, I can jump at least 6 feet in the air, but not 20 feet! Those Ugly Naked People would just keep flashing their ugly naked parts at me and keep flashing and allowing even more rain inside the house. So I just said to h@!! with it and stayed inside where it was dry.

Where is my thanks?

I, Mulligan, have spent endless nights worrying, up late studying, pushing, prodding, and threatening teachers. Yet where are my accolades? I took over where Tyler left off. Tyler did very well in Science earning Oldest Lad a Superior rating in the Science Fair all the way up the Ohio State level. Those Gold Fish developed massive egos after that, demanding gourmet fish food and forever making snooty fish faces at whomever passed their fish tank. Unfortunately, Tyler was not so good at Geometry. When I came on the scene I was forced to not only take over in the Science Department, but math as well. And Language Arts. Oldest Lad is an atrocious speller and yet do I get any credit for all the words I was forced to look up in the dictionary, without opposable thumbs?

Yes, for I got the Oldest Lad through three years of high school, but where are my checks, my Target gift cards, my random dropping off of gifts? No, it seems that the last two weeks the oldest lad has been receiving an endless supply of rewards, monetary mostly and what do I get? I only get accused of trying to eat Grandma when she parked in the wrong spot in the driveway.

Shouldn't the Dog get to have an Award Ceremony? A gift of some kind? Some paltry thanks for getting the Oldest Lad through Honors Chemistry, Pre-Calc, Honors Physics, AP Physics, Jazz Band, Symphonic Band, and all those writing assignments he put off until after he watched "The Unit?" All I have is heartburn for all my efforts. Pass me the Prevacid please.

Inconsiderate cleaning

First off, I have never, not once, disrupted one of Mom's naps by using the vacuum cleaner during it. Shouldn't I deserve the same respect? Second. Just the other day, Oldest Lad opened a Time Capsule he had from school. In it was a bag of dog hair that Mom had donated for him to put in from Tyler, may his canine soul rest in peace. What was Mom doing with all my dog hair today, excepting what was attached to me? Yep, she was vacuuming it up and sweeping it up and throwing it away. Guess I know where I stand in Mom's heart. No wonder we have so many pillows and Mom's been on a crochet frenzy. It's all that Tyler hair she saved.

Non-Enriched

It's that time of year, just before summer when Mom begins to realize that the hooligans will be home soon to interfere with the scant quality time that she has to spend with me, Mulligan. She also realizes that without the Public School System fortifying their little brains for weeks on end, their neurons may shrivel and dry up. Mom has been on the Enrichment Search. Swim lessons and taekwondo to keep those muscles from atrophy. Lego Camp for Little Lad. Lego NXT robot camp for Middle Lad. Puppet class. Art class. Boy scout camp. Piano lessons. Summer band. The lads should be fully enriched with every possible vitamin combination of fortification if Mom has her way, yet still have plenty of free time to "just play."

Mulligan: "Mom, with all your concern for Enrichment for the Lads; how come I don't get to take any classes to get my Enrichment?"

Mom: "Mulligan, I don't have to worry about the Lads biting anybody. Even when Little Lad was back in preschool and that Little Girl bit him and drew blood even, he did not bite her back."

Mulligan: "Mom! Did Little Lad catch the Rabies? Did he foam at the mouth?"

Mom: "No, Mulligan. Preschools require all students to be fully vaccinated, so Little Lad did not catch the Rabies. But that's not the point. Little Lad and Middle Lad say "please" and "thank you" and don't try to dominate everyone. They share and take turns and follow directions."

Mulligan: "Well . . . um. I AM fully vaccinated. And I don't eat Markers. It was Pennie that ate the markers. I only ate Oldest Lad's Homework that ONE time. Oh, and that glue stick I ate. And I have never tried to eat the Lego Mindstorm Robots."

Mom: "Mulligan, you are AFRAID of the Lego Mindstorm Robots. How about if I just Home School Enrich you?"

Mulligan Family Compound

My best wishes to Senator Kennedy as he recovers from his illness. In news clips, however, it is my understanding that he lives at the "Kennedy Family Compound in Hyannisport." How come he gets to live at a Compound and all I get is my Half-Acre of Suburbia? I thought this country was not supposed to be Elitist? There are many similarities between my Half-Acre and a so-called Compund. My Perimeter is surround by Electric Fence, thanks to the Invisible Fence Company. Access to the home is controlled Coded Entry. Double Coded Entry, as both garages have automatic garage door openers and outdoor keypads with coded entry. Not one, but two full-time Sentry Dogs guard the Half-Acre Compound. No waterfront or pool but we do have a hot tub (although broken, installed by the previous owners and no longer fixable.) We have a beach when the lid of the sandbox is off. Oh, and yes often have a scenic waterfall, due to clogged gutters. We have an excess of cars, always necessary at any compound. Some of these cars are even operational.

There, I think that should qualify me as living at a Compound. I shall call it the Mulligan Family Compound.

Sibling Uses

I have come to the realization that if Oldest Lad continues on his path of self-destruction, he may never become a Productive Citizen. This latest attack of Shingles has once again forced me to face how pathetic he is and how superior I am. I have been pondering uses for him, as my previous hopes that he will one day bring home the kibble have been all but dashed.

As he already has Shingles, and he does not appear to have a fear of heights, why not use him as shingles? Put him to work for a roofing company. With his weight and ability to cling with toes and fingers he will have much better ability to cling on during a thunderstorm than those pesky blue tarps used when the job is only half-done.

Obviously he could be used as a sign, just hang YOUR shingle upon HIS shingle.

I shall be taking bids for his use as a weapon of biological (moderate) warfare. Shingles is only contagious through direct contact, and to those who have not had chicken pox. Anybody out there who has an upcoming vacation with the in-laws they want to miss? A uncomfortable business conference? Just p-mail me and I will send you a pair of Oldest Lad's Boxer Shorts that he has worn for a day. Oh, did I mention that he has most of his lesions around his waist band and lower abdomen? Rub those boxers all over the cell phone, steering wheel, or other personal item of whomever you want to infect and the deed shall be done.

I am off to enclose myself in Saran Wrap. Come to think of it, I have not had chicken pox and do not believe the vet has it on the list of dog vaccines.

Pupdate Afterthought: Oh the horror of it all. Oldest Lad is walking around wearing those Boxer Short Biological Weapons. I am certain that those are on the "banned list" of items allowed to be brought to Public School along with AK47s, knives, machetes, and Ibuprofen. If there is a random Biological Weapons search done, the K9 Unit will undoubtedly find the Oldest Lad. He will be sniffed awake in AP Physics and dragged out into the parking lot, there to be detonated. CNN will have the usual disclaimer "the upcoming scenes may be disturbing to some viewers" but will show it all anyway. I do hope he is wearing freshly washed Boxer Shorts, perhaps the ones with the sock monkey pattern.

And he just gave me a bath.

The Oldest Lad continues in his pursuit to afflict all of his body parts prior to graduating high school. He has become a constant drain upon the family finances; one $30 co-pay at a time. Just a few weeks ago he contracted a terrible case of poisonous ivy. Really it was his fault for cavorting with that Ivy woman in the woods. She entangles the unsuspecting in her inviting soft leaved snare and then leaves her oily uroshiol to wreak it's havoc. The lad was weeping liquid allergic reaction fluid all about for days. It's unclear how many rolls of gauze he went through in an attempt to keep his liquidness and blisters to himself. Fortunately for Prom his body was mostly encased in rented black Tuxedo, hiding the red ravages.

With his skin finally cleared all seemed well. Until a new affliction appeared.

Oldest Lad: "Mom, I have this new rash. I thought I was over the poison ivy. This rash hurts and itches."

Mom instantly hones in on the word "hurts.": "Is it on only one side of your body?"

Oldest Lad shows Mom the parts of the rash than he can decently show her. Unfortunately, his schedule does not allow a doctor's visit for several days. Good for the checking account however. Time to transfer funds for a fresh round of co-pays.

Today Mom and Oldest Lad visit the Doctor. Oldest Lad has not been doing any roofing lately, however, he has managed to contract Shingles.

Am I going to catch the terrible Shingles? Oldest Lad just gave me a bath on Saturday? I know I touched him where the rash was. Am I going to catch Chicken Pox? Perhaps I should just stay away from Oldest Lad. He is still going to Physical Therapy ($30 co-pay each visit) for his knee surgery. What else is he going to do to himself? What if he starts involving others in his plights? At least I don't sleep with him.

Can't she just be spineless?

Mom volunteers a lot. Most of the time if someone asks her to do something she will render her services. She is often called upon to bake. Today Mom received an email calling upon her to bake several dozen cookies for an event scheduled for Wednesday. Mom was quite irritated. She learned about the event mid-week last week. The chairperson of the event is notorious for putting things off to the last minute. With great muttering, Mom informed Me, Mulli of the MidWest, that there was no way she was making cookies for this event given such short notice. If her baking services were so valued, then by darn this person could have called upon Mom last week. Mom was tired of this person using Mom for the last several years.

How could Mom do this to me? Why get a backbone now? Can't she just suck it up and bake the darn cookies? I am sure she won't be teaching this person anything. By Dog, I want those Spineless Cookies!

Mother's Day

Why am I supposed to set aside an entire day to celebrate Motherhood? If it was so special, then why is there so many of them? Really, we all got here by way of mothers' so they are extremely common. Why celebrate such an ordinary item. Aren't special days set aside for the extraordinary?

Mutt Day. Now that would be a day to celebrate. For every single mutt is different, making each and every mutt unique and extraordinary. I am sure there are no other Mulligans in the world. I can not begin to calculate how many mothers there are in the world.

Oh

Mom: "Fine, Mulligan, if it means that much to you eat the D@%^ chocolate revel bars I made for the teacher appreciation luncheon. Just remember though, that if you end up needing a transplant I'm NOT donating to you part of my liver or one of my kidneys."

Mulligan: "Oh."

Standards

Mom: "Mulligan, what exactly is your standard of friendliness? Just one week ago poor ill-fated Bruin was brought into our yard, albeit with no planning or attention to canine introductions by his family; and you and he just about killed each other. Today, I look out the back window and there you and Pennie are running around the backyard having a grand old time playing and galivanting with a dog that none of us have ever seen before. Some stray that just wandered into your Half-Acre of Suburbia."

Mulligan: "Well, gosh, Mom, it's not like you like everyone you meet. In fact you are so quiet and shy people often think you are standoffish."

Mom: "Yeah, Mulli, but I don't go for anybody's throat. Never once have I met someone and immediately tried to bite them. And maybe I'm quiet but I do say Hello and shake hands."

Mulligan: "Dunno, Mom, I guess I am just a swifter judge of character."

Mom: "I can just never win with you, can I?"

TV worth watching

I learned on Mythbusters today that Cereal manufacturers do not intend for the consumers to eat the box itself, just the cereal. I'll have to give that some thought.

Lost the bet

Mom and Dad had a bet that the new neighbor dog wouldn't last three weeks. It ended up only lasting one. Yep, poor Bruin was shipped back to the shelter after just ONE Week. Oh, he was a nice enough Dog, not that I cared for him, considering our wrongful introduction and all. Mom met him and said he was a great dog, just needed a little work. Dad tried to give the so called Owner a Pep Talk about the "Adjustment Phase" of a new dog (I think after two plus years I am still in my adjustment phase) and "give it some time, this is obviously a nice dog." Mom is really irritated because she claims she was practically tortured by my shelter to make sure she knew about dogs before she was allowed to adopt me or Pennie. She can't imagine what shelter allowed Bruin to be adopted by someone who knew absolutely nothing about dogs. Oh, the kind of shelter that gets a dog back in a week.

Yeah, it was brought up about us taking in Bruin but that would make three dogs. Dad didn't even have to start putting his foot down because Mom knew she would be in over her head with three dogs.

Toilet Hamburgers

Tonight after dinner Little Lad was sent upstairs to take his shower.
Dad: "Go jump in the shower Little Lad."
Mom, rolls her eyes: "I think you should step into the shower. Then stand. If you jump you might slip."
Off Little Lad goes.
The rest of us stayed for conversation. This evening it was what to do in the event of a Nuclear Attack and whether to head for the basement or try to drive as far as possible before the fallout started back down. I was busy keeping my eyes on the rest of the Grilled Steak and Four Leftover Hamburgers.

Mom started wrapping the Hamburgers.

Yelling was heard from upstairs.

Dad ran upstairs.

Mom continued to wrap.

Dad yelled: "Come up here NOW! It's an emergency!"

Mom ran upstairs. Then she ran back downstairs. Then I noticed that it was beginning to rain in the kitchen. How Odd.

Mom and Oldest Lad began grabbing towels, mats, anything and laying them on the floor of the kitchen. Dad and Middle Lad were upstairs emptying the Linen Closet onto the floor of the Boy's Bathroom.

The rain in the kitchen got worse. There was no thunder, or lightening, fortunately, but I decided to stay away from it anyway. Apparently Little Lad decided to use the Indoor Back Yard before he got into the shower. He caused a MAJOR OVERFLOW. This was the cause of the Kitchen Rain. Poor Ceiling. It was just redone the end of 2006 when the kitchen was remodeled. Guess it will need to be done again in 2008.

Back to those Four Hamburgers. Mom looked at Oldest Lad. She was pretty sure those hamburgers had not been dripped upon. But she just couldn't quite be sure.

So Pennie and I each got TWO grilled Hamburgers! So what if they had a few drips of eau de toilet on them!

I didn't have a problem with it

I had a wet fart in Mom and Dad's bed.

She's Crazy

I guess it's the old story. It's OK for me to call my Mom Crazy. But don't let anybody else dare do it. If only I could remove my E-collar and get out of my Half-Acre of Suburbia I would run up to school and bite him.

Oldest Lad was surfing the Web at School. Yes. In the Public School, paid for by your Tax Dollars, he had nothing better to do than to check out my Dogster page. I am pleased that he wanted to visit me, but shouldn't our Tax Dollars have him working a bit harder? Do we really fork over so much of our pay for said Lad to check out my Dogster Page on School Time, using tax-payer funded Internet and Computers no less? For Dog's sake put the Lad to work cleaning chalkboards or memorizing facts.

Regardless, one of Oldest Lad's teacher's glanced over and saw my picture. Of course it had to be that utmost embarassing picture of me in my shower cap. The teacher told Oldest Lad: "Your Mother is Crazy." I will certainly agree that Mom is Crazy. But that's really not for the Teacher to Say.

What I think.

This is what I think. Mom is the chief yard picker upper. Really the only yard picker upper. Dad and the Lads do such a poor job (on purpose of course) that Mom is stuck with the doody. This gives Mom ample opportunity to discover exactly What I have consumed.
Yard Mumbles:
Ghees, Mulligan, did you have to eat the entire bread wrapper with the loaf of bread?
I see Mulli ate a bag of candy again. Sparkle Poo.
Oh. Pennie ate a mouse. There's bits of body in this one.

Anyway this is what I think. I'd like to go into the bathroom with Mom and examine after SHE's done. Let's she how she likes that!

Mom should really be eating more vegetables.
Gosh Mom, that was Quite a chocolate binge!
Ah, maybe eating all that fruit in one day wasn't such a good idea.

There. That's what I would do if I was the Bathroom Picker Upper.

A Separate Reality

At least I am off of Mom's List. Mom swear's our Neighbor lives in her own Separate Reality.
First, lets go back to when I first arrived on the scene. I was very skittish and unsure of myself after at least a year and a half in the shelter and coming out of an abusive situation. I was literally afraid of falling leaves. Our driveway happens to be the bus stop for our part of the street. Mom thought it would be great socialization for me to join the assembly. I did enjoy it. However, there was one wee boy who had no dog experience. Mom very patiently taught him the correct way to pet dogs. She explained to his Mother, who had no dog experience, the way for a child to treat a dog. She received no back up from said Mother. This Mother allowed this child to poke me, prod me and hang on me, despite Mom's patient daily verbage. Finally came the day that this Mother let her child take an umbrella and open and shut it repeatedly while chasing me. Mom gave up on letting me come to the bus stop, our own driveway.

Fast forward to todayMiddle lad goes outside to wait for the bus. Pennie and I go outside. Mom hears terrible barking, screams, and then I, Mulligan, come back inside the house.

Mom, still in her nightgown, suggests that Dad should go outside to investigate.

Dad goes outside.

The neighborhood Woman, still with no dog experience, has adopted an Giant Husky-Shephard Male, from a rescue. She has another boy, age 10, who holds the leash. She allows him to simply take the dog straight into the territory of Pennie and I. Not only that, but it is in the area on the edge of the electronic fence, leaving us little room to maneuver. Of course, that breaks every rule of introducing dogs. Fortunately Middle Lad was able to push me inside the house before anyone was hurt.

Mom is furious. As she says: "Great. These dogs are now never going to get along. And of course this Woman is blaming it all on us, according to her it's all our fault, even though she's the Idiot. She has no business adopting a dog like that. That poor dog is going to end up dead or back at a shelter because she is stupid."

I suppose I should be happy that Mom is forgetting to be mad at me but it is hard when I realize that this poor dog really hasn't been rescued at all if he is just being brought into a situation with someone who can't handle him.

MY Version.

Yesterday Mom was supremely embarassed by my behavior at the Vet. This is my rebuttal.
First off, I had a meeting already on my agenda. It was my opportunity to meet with the Cincinnati Mineral Society and the Moles that live in my Half-Acre of Suburbia to discuss the mineral rights for the backyard and how far UP into the actual yard those rights extended and to what level the Moles could safely tunnel UP to before expecting to be consumed by Pennie.

Immediately upon entering the Vet's back room, the "Torture Room," I was stripped of my Blackberry. The crying Mom heard was me calling to her to remind her to be sure to grab it before we left, as I was expecting an important Text Message. I was trying to communicate my preference to the Vet Techs about how I wanted my Nails Trimmed. I am quite a Verbose Dog. They mistook this for me wishing to bite them. They brought me back in to Mom for a Muzzle.

Mom put a Muzzle on me. At this point, many things happened at once. First off, I received multiple immunizations. I was thrashing about because I was trying to ascertain whether or not these immunizations had been checked for the preservative Thimerosol. It is still a bit hazy as to it's link to Autism and we'll never get a straight answer from the CDC. Then the Vet Tech was trying to draw blood. She gave me no indication what she was drawing the blood for, how much, and indeed was she using it for Stem Cell Research, an illegal Cloning Project (I am indeed a brute enough, we don't need Mulligan Clones, for Dog's sake), or for some test that I had not given Informed Consent. Then of course came the nail trimming and I had still not been given the opportunity to talk about how I wished them to be trimmed.

After all that, Mom kept my Blackberry and I missed out on my meeting with the Moles.

On the List

I am "On the List."
That's what happens around here. Mom just informs the performer of the transgression: "YOU Are On My List."
Apparently after my morning's behaviour at the Vet I am on the list. Well maybe I didn't like Mom's behaviour either. Perhaps I would have preferred a 12:15 appointment. Or a Tuesday.

Vet Woes

Mulligan: "Mommy, let's . . ."
Mom: "Can it Mulli. And don't call me Mommy."
Mulligan, starts over: "Oh Mumzie, dearest, would you like to snuggle for a bit?"
Mom: "Mulligan, don't try to make it up to me. You. Are. An. Utter. Embarassment. To. Me. Period."
Mulligan: "Oh."
Mom: "Can you just for one minute explain to me how it is possible to cry, growl, bite, howl obscenities, and to thrash one's body about all at the same time while wearing a muzzle?"
Mulligan looks at his freshly clipped nails and thinks that perhaps he should have them painted. Maybe that would make Mom feel better.
Mom: "You know we should probably send the Vet Techs some flowers. Or a candy bouquet. Or a gift card to the chiropractor."
Mulligan decides perhaps Mom needs some Alone Time.

Tying Knots

Mom is back to the compulsive knot tying. It just isn't normal. During her only half-completed store-room cleaning; she found some old knots that she had saved. Yes, really, a stack of old knots. She had never completed them because, oh, she had some sort of valid sounding excuse. Anyway, suddenly it seems so urgent after all these years that she piece together all these knots.

It just makes me suspicious. If she is so interested in knots then why not become a fisherman? Oh, because she gets sun-burned too easily with her fair skin. Well, then what about a sailor? Oh, because too much wind and motion gives her a migraine. Then, for Dog's sake what about a Boy Scout. Wrong Gender. I guess she is just stuck making knots into blankets.

It just makes me worry. First off, I am not allowed to sit on her lap when she is compulsively knotting away. As if I would want to get that crochet hook jabbed into my side, or eye, or ear, or other body part. Plus, what if I get caught in a giant knot? Or she crochets a giant noose? Yes, she'll call me over and tell me to look at the nice blanket she has crocheted for me and she'll really have knotted me a Mulli-noose.

It's just knot natural to be so knotty.

Love or Fear?

Oldest Lad had a new female friend over last night. Well, she wasn't new to him, just to me. Oh I am in love. I was quite the ladies man. I can be rather a brute but I was all over this babe. She rubbed me. I kissed her. I sniffed her, I pawed her. Trust me, I got way more action than the Oldest Lad; considering this dame has a boyfriend and Oldest Lad and she are "just friends."
This is what I think it is: Fear Factor. Yep, this beautiful woman is a Second Degree Black Belt in Taekwondo. I don't dare growl at her or Alpha her or she will take me down. I am just not normally this friendly but I guess I just need someone to take charge of me. And she has. I was a submissive as the lowliest white belt and baby I am in LOVE!

This Prom will Do me in

Yesterday there were even more Prom antics. Mom accompanied Oldest Lad and Friend to the Tuxedo Rental Store. Poor Little Lad was force marched along as he had no one home to watch him. Mom was not really needed; only her Visa was.
At the Tuxedo store poor Little Lad was utterly bored. Mom brought along her yarn and worked on her crochet project. She gave Little Lad a long piece of yarn to play with. He found the dressing area with the mirrors on three sides that the men use to look at themselves when they have alterations. I was asleep when I was altered but apparently humans like to be awake when they have alterations. Little Lad proceeded to entertain himself for almost half an hour with the piece of yarn an the mirrors. Many other Moms and their Lads were also there for the ritual Tuxedo pick-up and Visa signing. Little Lad ended up being the entertainment for the whole store with his theatrics in the mirrors with the yarn. Several Moms commented to Mom, some rather tearfully, how they missed those days. Yes I suppose it does go too fast from the time when the lads can be entertained with a length of yarn to when they need a Tuxedo rental complete with shiny shoes, matching vest, and bow tie plus the car keys.
Once Mom had duly signed away any hopes of new toys for me; she dropped off Oldest Lad and Friend at Friend's house and was off to pick up Middle Lad from Taekwondo.
Meanwhile, Oldest Lad and Friend returned to my Half-Acre of Suburbi, now in Friend's car, along with Chinese Take-Out. Oh, the odor of Chinese Take-Out. The mouth-watering allure. The problem was, Oldest Lad and Friend were locked out. There I sat, long ropes of drool hanging from my gorgeous lips, on one side of the door, as Oldest Lad stood on the other side of the door with a large bag of gingery, garlickly, Asian goodness.
Once again I found Prom to be nothing more than a chance to disappoint. Oldest Lad and Friend ended up having a picnic in the back of Oldest Lad's Pick-Up Truck, forking those strand's of Chinese goodness into their mouth while I sat locked inside the house in a puddle of my own saliva.
Then this very morn, when Mom should be out walking me, she is off to the High School to sell Prom tickets and to decorate for the After-Prom, totally neglecting all of her Mulligan duties.
Maybe I'll dog-hair the Black Tuxedo for revenge.

again supporting the superiority of myself

Today, one of the Oldest Lad's teachers, upon seeing the Oldest Lad commented to him: "Are you trying to injure EVERY part of yourself before graduation?"

In the two and a half years since I have been living here, I have only suffered one injury: Pennie bit off part of my ear.

The Oldest Lad has: Broken his elbow. Torn his ACL. Had his knee surgically repaired, to replace that torn ACL. Now he has systemic Poisonous Ivy and looks, well, less than attractive, one might say. This does not take into account the broken limbs suffered before my tenure.

I am careful when out with the Oldest Lad not to walk too close to him.

Unsettling Focus

Mulligan: "Hey Mom, let's go for a walk!"
Mom: "Not now, Mulligan. I have motion sickness from my new bifocals."
Mulligan: "Emotion Sickness. Yes, Mom, the lads and I have known this for a long time. It's good to admit this to yourself finally. Now you can get the help you need."
Mom: "Mulligan! I said Motion Sickness! Not E-Motion Sickness! My new glasses are messing with the connections between my eyes and my brain. It will take a few weeks for my eyes and brain to get used to the new glasses and adjust."
Mulligan: "Geesh, Mom no reason to get all in a huff!

These bifocals really are causing Emotion Sickness for Mom. And if they are messing with Mom's head who knows what could happen? How many crimes have been caused by Bifocals? Is it a valid Criminal Defense? "My Client can not be held accountable for his actions on the night of February 13th because he was in the adjustment phase of wearing Bifocals."

Let's look at it from an historical perspective: Joseph Stalin and Adoph Hitler both wore glasses. Was that their problem? The E-Motion Sickness caused by the so-called adjustment phase? And the early 20th century criminals, Leopold and Loeb. Nathan Leopold's glasses were actually the evidence that led to solving the case.

What am I to do with Mom? Should I sit on her? Growl at her every time she tries to leave the house? But then what if she turns her E-Motion Sickness against me?
How long does this last?

At least Mom is honest

Mom has been cleaning out the storeroom. She has been going through boxes with a vengeance, throwing away and repacking. She has gone through all the boxes that contain stored items from her family's past. Alas, after 18 years she found an item that one of her sister-in-laws was looking for when Mom's Mother died. It is a crystal jelly jar. In the confusion and mayhem of packing up the house, the crystal jelly jar had become lost. Mom did not think she had it.

Mom has sorted through all these boxes before but is confidant she has never seen this item. In Mom's defense, Mom was the youngest of 4 brothers and another sister. To Mom, a Jelly Jar was something like this: Jelly Jar: "Oh, you want Jelly? There, see that fridge, go get some jelly and mind you better be quick before your brothers beat you to it and eat it all." Certainly Mom wasn't used to jelly actually being taken from it's own store jar and being put into something else just for serving purposes. Sure Mom ate jelly, plenty of it. And peanut butter, too. Back in those days, when families had ample populations of offspring, peanut allergies were unheard of. No child would dare to have a peanut allergy. With all those children underfoot the Mom wouldn't even notice the child gasping for breath, covered in hives. Middle Lad would have been a goner after the first sandwich.

Once Mom figured out that she had discovered this mysterious crystal jelly jar that has eluded her for eighteen years, she left it out and notified her sister-in-law of the discovery.

Pennie and I are trying to convince Mom and I to let us sniff around some of the other treasures. I wasn't too keen about the smell of the box of old lab research supplies. Mom threw those away and refused to explain any of it, but muttered something about Oldest Lad needing to eat and maternal single parent obligations and that time is past now.

Finally the MidWest Makes the News

With the Earthquake, finallly the MidWest makes the news. It's tough living in the non-newsworthy part of the nation. Things actually happen here. Really. But no one ever pays attention. It's only when things happen in LA, or Dallas, or New York, that it ever makes the news. Or it involves Multiple Wives.

St. Louis sits on a HUGE tectonic plate. Nobody cares about that. Oh everyone knows that at any moment all of California might fall into the Ocean. But what about all of us MidWesterners in imminent danger of falling into the Mississippi and Ohio rivers?

I have webbed feet. The Oldest Lad was a Varsity Swimmer. Mom and Dad have made sure that the Middle Lad and Little have reached at least the "Fish" level in YMCA swim classes. We live on the highest point of Cincinnati. In case of a major tectonic shift, that puts on a major slide directly into the river, only 2 miles away. Our best hope lies then in swimming for it. Unless we hit the water first. With the rest of the MidWest on top of us. I hope LA goes first.

Why pay taxes?

Dad has been in a dither. He owed a very large amount of money to the Federal Government and a large amount to the State Government.

I can certainly understand Dad being upset.

Oldest Lad: "Mumzie! I can't find the pillow cases for the small travel pillows!"

Mom: "Why do you need a small pillow? You aren't planning a trip are you?"

Oldest Lad: "No, I have been napping in Study Hall. I usually just lay down on the floor with mysweat shirt under my head, but now that it's getting warmer, I don't want to have to remember to bring my sweatshirt. I'll just keep a pillow in my locker."

I suppose Kudos do go to Oldest Lad because at least he is trained enough to use a liner and pillow case.

But what does it say about our Tax Dollars? Why are the Tax Payers, such as Dad, forking over large amounts of cash for Public Education, for Oldest Lad to take a Nap at School?

Really, does the Oldest Lad deserve a Tax-Payer Funded Nap?

Prom Pup-Date

As of the last Bacon-Deprived Diary Post, Friend Facsimile had been left stranded on Potential Prom Date's Porch.

At 7:30 am the following morning, Potential Date's parents got up for church and discovered Friend Facsimile. They called up to Girl: "Girl, there is someone here to see you!"

Girl: "But I am still in my pajamas!"

Parents: "That's OK, he won't mind!"

Friend Facsimile was invited in the house, where he waited politely in the foyer. All day. What a perfect Gentleman!

Meanwhile, Friend and Oldest Lad were at home sleeping. Friend's Cell Phone battery had died and he could not receive a call from Girl. She was at Church anyway, unlike the boys, who were busy snoring after depriving me of so much BACON in the middle of the night.

In the afternoon Friend and Oldest Lad contacted AAA for a little Truck-Towing and met the Truck on the side street by Girl's House. She noticed the Truck and invited the boys in. She commented on how nicely Friend Facsimile had behaved all day, standing politely in the foyer. They played the game Apples to Apples while waiting for AAA to arrive.

Girl did NOT answer the PROM DATE QUESTION! Nope, she was playing hard to get.

Oldest Lad left. Friend left. Friend Facsimile was invited to stay for dinner and the night.

Finally on Tuesday, Girl announced to Friend that indeed Friend Facsimile had convinced her that Friend was a worthy Prom Date.

I, Mulligan, was left at home during all this to fold clothes with Mom. It confirms to me that woman are simply not worth the trouble. I still did not get any bacon. I did not get to ride in the Tow-Truck, which would have been every dog's dream, with my big head and tongue lolling out the window.

Are Girls Really Worth It?

As of last night, Oldest Lad's Friend was still woefully lacking in a partner to attend that annual celebration of Single's Awareness, The Prom. At their Public School, the Girls are not satisfied with a Lad simply composing a thoughtful question, such as: "Will you be my date for Prom?" No. The Girls must be persuaded, bribed, and cajoled by increasingly creative ways of asking. It is frightening to think what a Boy must have to go through to get a date at a Private School.

This is what Oldest Lad did: He bought a Dozen Red Roses. He contacted all of his prospective date's teachers. Each teacher was given a Labelled Rose to give to the Lady: 1st period: "Will", 2nd period "You", 3rd period "Go", 4th period "To", 5th period "Prom", 6th period "With", and 7th period, Oldest had with the Lady and he gave her the rest of the roses. Fortunately she said "Yes," or he would have had to come up with a whole other idea!

Last Night, Oldest Lad and Friend created a Large Friend Sized Display from Foam Board and a garbage-picked large yard sign. On it, they traced the outline of Friend. (Like the chalk outlines of crime scenes.) They adorned this drawn Friend in a Tuxedo with a red bow tie. Oldest Lad took a picture of Friend's Head. They printed it out on the computer, in color, of course. This picture was glued on top of the Crime Scene, I mean, Tuxedo version of Friend. A talk balloon was added "Will you go to Prom with Friend?"

At 1:00 am, one hour post Township curfew, the Six Foot Friend Facsimile was loaded up into Oldest Lad's pickup truck. Off they drove to the Girl's house and parked in her driveway. Quietly then set up the Six Foot Friend Facsimile Display Stand on her front porch. Then they called her cell phone. She did not answer. They called again. No answer. They called again. She turned the phone off.

Oldest Lad and Friend went back to the truck, leaving Facsimile Friend on the Porch. The truck did not start. A few expletives were muttered. Being resourceful, the Men called not Mom who was in bed already, or Dad who was in Cleveland, but a girl up the street. She wasn't home, but returned soon. She brought her car up to the house and attempted to "jump" the truck. It was no use. The truck was dead. In all this time, no one from the potential Date's family awakened. Finally, Oldest Lad was able to pop the clutch and roll the truck out of Potential Date's driveway and into a side street. Non-date Girl drove Friend and Oldest Lad back home, stranding Friend Facsimile on the porch to do his job of Prom-date asking for the morning.

Upon return home, 2 and a half hours post-Township curfew, Oldest Lad and Friend reported in to Mom. Then they proceed to fry BACON and make a frozen pizza. They stranded ME, Mulligan, upstairs, in the bedroom with Mom, with the smell of Bacon and pizza wafting under the door. In the morning Oldest Lad said "Yes, I could hear someone walking around up there." That someone of course being ME!

No. I do not think girls are worth: One. The agony of asking them out on a date. TWO. The anguish of BACON deprivation. It is a law that any Bacon made at Three in the morning must be shared with all dogs in the household.

Shhh

OK, if anyone just read the last entry, about Pennie being a Fiery Tempered Red-Head, then don't break the news to her. Oldest Lad filled out his housing application for college. He did not put Pennie down as his room mate preference. Really. Pennie THINKS she is going to college with Oldest Lad. She already has her major picked out: Nursing. I do not want to be around when Pennie realizes her current roommate is moving out, and she will have to move in with Middle Lad or Little Lad.

Don't let him tell me I didn't warn him.

Mom is a red head. And boy does she let us know it. She claims it is all from a conspiracy. This is how her logic, which we are all afraid to dispute, goes: From the time she was a wee lassy, she was told that red heads had a fiery temper. This made her mad. That gave her a temper. Then everytime she got mad at people for blaming her red hair she got even madder. She said it was a self-fulfilling conspiracy-inspired prophecy. Plus she says it is AUBURN, anyway. And now it is Red and Gray. (I am going to pay for this, I just know it.)

Now, back in August the Oldest Lad decides he wants a second dog. He goes to the shelter with Mom and selects the only dog in residence at the shelter that I do not try to destroy: Pennie.

Pennie is Red. Four days later Pennie bites off part of my ear.

OKAY. Now it is April. Prom Season. What does the Oldest Lad do? Does he have NO Learning Curve? Has he not learned anything in his short life?

Yep, he asked a Red-Head to Prom.

Me? I am just going to hide. Pennie is going to be mad at Oldest Lad for taking a Human Girl to Prom and not her. That's One Red-Head Mad. And as Red-Heads go, I am sure the Oldest Lad will so something during Prom night to dig himself into a hole with the Prom Date Red-Head.

The sad tale of being a third dog

I am a third dog. Poor Pennie is the fourth. Not at the same time. First there was Samson, who Mom still considers her First Born, despite Oldest Lad, Middle Lad, and Little Lad. Then there was Tyler. Then Me, Mulligan. And Pennie. Only Me and Pennie are here at the same time. Co-habitating Dogs.

Anyhoo, I have Spring Allergies. Ahh ahh ahh choooooo. I have massive quantities of Eye Boogers. Yup. Big nastie, dripping down my massive jowls eye boogers. Pennie has 'em too. Hers are at least petite and dainty eye boogers.

Now, one would think that Mom would spend much of her time ministering to my wonderful, beautiful face with a warm wet wash cloth to remove my eye boogers. Nope.

Samson had allergies. He was ministered to. He was Mom's First Born. His face was wiped. No Eye Boogers. Then Oldest Lad came along. When he had a dirty face, Mom wiped his face. Then Middle Lad came along. At that point all novelty had worn off with Mom and poor Samson had to do all the face wiping! Then Little Lad came along. Samson was gone, but Mother Tyler was here and thankfully HE took over the chore of wiping faces.

OK, then I came along. I do not lower myself to cleanse the visages of lower animal forms. So Little Lad being the Youngest, just walks around with a dirty face, unless Pennie takes care of it. Considering that Pennie took a large chunk out of my EAR, I do not let her mouth anywhere near my face.

Alas, therefore I have Eye Boogers. And once in a while Mom remembers me and will wipe them.

How can Mom turn the essence of love into . . .

Pie is the essence of love. It is warm and soothing and how could that woman turn that very thing into POISON! How could she make a Poison Pie! Dogs cannot eat onions. Onions are poison to dogs. Pie is good for dogs. Apple pie. Cherry pie. Oh the list could continue for hours. But no, Mom made "Onion Pie." It still smelled so lovely, and it was warm and fluffy and eggy and even had BACON pieces on top. Mom was sure this time I was going to burn the fur right off my head as I kept sticking my head right inside the oven when she would check on this pie. Then Dad and Mom dove right into that warm pie for dinner and Dad pronounced it absolutely wonderful.
I'd like to make a Poison Pie for that Woman.

Bird Brains

We have a Nester, a Squatter, in the Primary Garage. Each morning the family is awakened by loud squawking as this large Red Cardinal calls to be let outside for whatever it is that birds do all day.

In my job as Family Protector, I filed the requisite paperwork with Hamilton County for an Eviction for this unwanted intruder. It would have been far easier to follow Pennie's plan to simply eat the bugger and fry up the eggs. Unfortunately, Mom just finished a unit at her Church about "40 Days of Community" and I felt that I should show more forbearance to my fellow animal. It does make me wonder what REALLY happened to Pennie's puppies. When she came she had obviously recently given birth. She claims she keeps contact over the internet, but I wonder, when I see her so gleefully chomp down a field mouse, what really happened to her litter of wee ones.

Anyway, my Eviction Notice not only went unheeded, but I learned a lot about Bird Brains. I don't know where Bird's store their brains but Mr. Cardinal immediately returned with a fat stack of his OWN paperwork. He claimed that Mom was in agregious breach of contract. The previous owner had been feeding the Cardinals for over 15 years. Mom stopped upon moving into the house. Middle Lad is allergic to peanuts and sunflower seeds. If one reads the packaging of bird seed, one finds that almost all contains one or both of those ingredients. Mom did not want bird seed about the house, for safety to the Middle Lad. Well, apparently that was a breach of contract, and now this Cardinal "Bird Brain" is sueing Mom for this and sueing for wrongful eviction no less. His family and ancestors lived in the land taken up by the garage for years prior to the house being built in 1968. He was willing to let bygones be bygones until I served him papers.

I may just have to allow Pennie's "solution" after all. Or just wait until the little hatchlings leave the nest in a few weeks and let it all go to rest.

Manners v manners

Mom: "Mulligan, when you climb into the chair to sit with me, has it ever occured to you that perhaps I don't want you to stick your butt in my face, first, before, you turn around to settle down."

Mulligan, taken aback: "Well, Mom, then how will you know it's ME?"

Mom rolls her eyes: "Mulligan, when little lad climbs into the chair to sit in my lap he doesn't first stick his butt in my face."

Mulligan: "Yes, but he doesn't have nearly a fine butt as I do."

Pajamas??????

The scene: My house, which I guard, protect, and in return expected nothing more but kibble, and some respect.
The time: Bedtime.

Mom: "Mulligan, it's to go to be-ed!"
(You know how Mom's are, adding extra syllables to words like bed.)
I come upstairs for bed.
Mom, in a voice that's sweet. Mom is not sweet. She doesn't think waterboarding is torture. She thinks boot camp should be mandatory for kindergarteners. If she is acting sweet that is a clear message of impending doom. Anyway, Mom, in a sweet voice: "Time to put on your pa-ja-mas!"

Wait. I don't wear pajamas. I am a dog.
Mom approaches me with the dreaded Belly Band. With it's inner lining of a feminine hygeine product. I slink away. Mom grabs me anyway and wraps the belly band around me and attaches the velcro.

I immediately become pathetic. I scoot on the floor. It doesn't remove the belly band. It just gives me a carpet burn on my bum.

Mom: "C'mom Mulli, everybody is wearing their PJs. You are just like the rest of the family."

No, I am not like the rest of the family. Pennie is not wearing PJs. She is just wearing her fur. Little Lad is wear PJs. And a pull-up. A pull-up. NOT a feminine hygeine product. Middle Lad is wearing PJs. Oldest Lad and Dad are wearing underwear. Mom is wearing PJs. I, Mulligan, is the only one being humiliated with a belly band and a feminine hygeine product. Is this why women are so crazy? Is PMS because women spend a week in sheer dread of wearing the feminine hygeine product? Then they have to spend a week actually wearing the feminine hygeine product? No wonder Mom spends half her time a raving lunatic.

Mom finally coaxes me on to the bed. I refuse to lay down. I stand on the bed. Dad turns out the light. I remain standing.

Dad: "Is Mulligan going to stand all night?"

Mom: "Oh, I am sure he'll get used to it. Turn on the light."

Mom turns on the light. She convinces me to sit. Then I see myself in the mirror over the dresser. I stare at the sad, pathetic reflection of myself wearing a denim wrap with a feminine hygeine lining. I lay down so I can no longer view what I have become.

Dad turns out the light. Mom rubs my head. She still uses that sweet voice of doom. "Good dog, what a sweet dog."

At least I was polite about it!

Unlike the much headlined recent incident with the TSA forcing a women to remove her, ah, personal, jewelry, I take my job with the utmost seriousness and utter DISCRETION.
Oldest Lad had a small gathering at the house. He entertained another lad and two ladies. He served them marinated and grilled strip steaks, garlic bread, salad, baked potatoes and carmelized onions. Alas, he managed to carmelize Mom's pot in his first attempt to produce carmelized onions. Mom is still working on getting those bits out as in over twenty years she has never used steel wool on her pots and vows "not this time."
Of course it was up to me to protect the house. As chief Inspector, I carefully inspected the ladies purses. I found a long, cylindrical object. Oh no! Was it a pipe bomb! With no thought to my own safety I consumed that object. I have watched many war movies with the family. I could have exploded right then and there, all over the house, in a bloody heap of dog guts. Fortunately it was only a Tampon. The young lady was a bit embarassed that I ate her tampon, but I was still allowed to watch movies with the dinner party.

Dog of few needs

I, Mulligan, am a dog of few possessions, of few needs, so to speak. It's not that I don't enjoy the comforts that OTHERS might provide, but I myself can live austerely.

I have my own clothing. I like it's color and length. I clean myself, by myself, with great relish, on a continuous basis.
I do lose my clothing, but only as nature has intended. Alas, Mom was in great consternation today as she was packing the Middle Lad to go camp with the Boy Scouts. Mom washes clothes continuously. I believe this compulsion began in college when she discovered how terrible it was to have limited access to washing facilities and not to own 112 panties. (Miami is on semesters.) Anyway, Mom was attempting to pack the Middle Lad and discovered a great lack of underwear despite washing all week. There were three used underwear on the floor of Middle Lad's room. Several more used were found on the other side of his bed, against the wall. A few more were found in the bathroom beneath some wet bath towels. In a last ditch effort Mom found just enough clean by finding one underwear that had been mis-filed in Little Lad's stack of underwear.

See? I save Mom quite a bit by not needing to wear underwear and be reminded constantly to "put your clothes in the hamper or I'm going to start making you do your own laundry."

I make my own bed. Anwhere I want to sleep I just curl into a little Mulli-Ball and drift off. Sure, some places ARE better than others but I'm not so picky. It's not like I'll pass up crisp clean sheets and a well made bed.

This morning Mom was sleeping and the bed was feeling a bit rumpled. I decided to clean my bottom thoroughly while Mom was sleeping. Mom awakened from the bed shaking. Then I started to lick the bed linens in that same spot where I was bottom-licking. Amazing how Mom decided that today was going to be fresh linen day. Amazing how tonight I too will have fresh linen night. Or I'd be perfectly content to lay in the same spot and spend the night relicking it. Dog of few needs.

Sir Isaac Newton Mulligan

While admittedly I am of superior intellect, I can not take credit for the invention of Gravity itself. Full honors for the invention of gravity must be given to that great apple-lover, Sir Isaac Newton.
Given that, how is it that I am consistently blamed for all Gravity-events that take place in this house? Newtonian Physics prove that it is the rotation of the earth itself that causes objects to fall to the floor, an event which I am not of sufficient mass to effect. I therefore did not cause the juice boxes to fall off the table and be chewed up. I am not of sufficient mass to effect the magnetic pull of the earth's rotation. The juice boxes fell due to the large gravitational pull of the earth.
Newton invented that. He also loved apples. Therefore he must have loved juice. I was honoring him by consuming the juice from the juice boxes that fell to the floor due to the Gravity that he invented so long ago.

Not on the Knot

Mom made a rather large Knot. She is very protective of this knot. She says that it took her many hours to make this knot and all dogs are not allowed on it. Hmmph. I really don't see what is so special about it. Just looks like a large Tangle of yarn to me.
Just another example of how I do not understand women. And I really didn't appreciate that large hook jabbing me in the side while Mom was trying to make that tangle and I was trying to sit on her lap, either.

Delayed dinner

If the Middle Lad has a friend over which prevents the Middle Lad from remembering his duty to feed me dinner, then shouldn't I be allowed to EAT his friend?

Cats and Heart Attacks.

Is it so surprising that Cats lower a person's Heart Attack Risk ? It is well known that Cats do not have hearts. A person who has a cat slowly loses their heart simply by being around the satanic animal. Multiple cats would cause this process to hasten. Therefore having a cat, or more than one cat, would diminish the risk of having a heart attack because if there is less heart, there is less chance of having a Heart Attack.

Voki

How can DOGSTER of all enteprises be promoting VOKI!

Why would my Mom want Me, Mulligan, when she can have a Voki, who is far less trouble?

This must be stopped!

There are not enough shelters in the worlds to house all the naughty pups who shall be given up when their owners discover Voki Pets!

New Trick

Mom caught me! She didn't know how I managed to drink from a Koolaid Juice Bag, It is a sad but well known fact that canines have loose lips. I can not play the saxophone. I can not drink from a straw. Or so Mom thought.

I figured it out. Little Lad places his straw-punched bag at his spot. With my delicate lip grasp, I remove the Juice Bag from the Kitchen Table, as Juice Bags are only allowed to be consumed outside or at the table. I head under the table. (Isn't that still following the rule (AT the table?))
I lay the bag on it's side. I gently place a paw on the full part of the bag. This causes the Koolaid Nectar to dribble out of the straw onto the little flat bit of bag and form a small puddle. I lap it up. I use my paw to push more and more of this sweet nectar out for me to consume with satisfied bliss.

Yes, I too can be a Koolaid Kid. Maybe I can't SUCK from a straw but I can still USE a straw.

Well.

This morning, as Mom was trying desperately to tie her shoes to go somewhere, and I was wrestling her to the ground, she informed me:
"Mulligan, has it ever occured to you that I have other things in my life BESIDES YOU?"

Well. No. Quite frankly it has not occured to me.

ADD

Oh, it is such a trial to live with a Lad with ADD. Unless said Middle Lad is sent to fetch a bag of Chicken Nuggets from the Downstairs Freezer. And said Middle Lad fails to notice a package of frozen dinner rolls falling out of the freezer. I deserve that package of dinner rolls for all the times Middle Lad has given me dinner late.

I think the woman is trying to do me in.

I am still stinging under the blow of Mom destroying my Stained Glass Window. Mulligan Van Gogh. Vincent Van Gogh's Mother probably destroyed one of his art creations when he was but a wee lad and that is why that great artist cut his ear off.

Now I have come to the realization that Mom must be trying to do me in. She must have hoped that destroying my artistic achievement would be the last straw. I am more resilient than that, and have figured out her long term scheme that has been failing.

Middle Lad is allergic to Peanuts. Peanuts are Poison to him. If he eats something with peanuts; the lad could die. Therefore, Mom does not cook with peanuts, peanut oil or anything that could have contacted peanuts.

One would think she would afford me, Mulligan, the same consideration. To me, a canine, Onions and Garlic are Poison. Yet she is CONSTANTLY cooking with onions, garlic, or even with BOTH at the same time. We have grapes in the house. And raisins.

Obviously Mom is trying to do me in.

Mom to Mulligan: "Gee Mulligan, do ya think maybe you just shouldn't be eating the HUMAN food in the first place!"

Oh, the Vixen. That is what she will tell the investigators when I finally succumb to her treachery.

The Agony of the Artist

I sincerely hope that my soul does not sink into the same despair as other artists. I have quite lovely, overly large ears and although one would make a delightful gift to anyone, I would hate to lose one. Yes, I can understand the agony, the depression, the despair of artists. I wonder what Van Gogh's Mother did to him to send him into the final downward spiral of agony that forced him to cut off his own ear.

I created a lovely Stained Glass Piece upon the back porch patio doors. It was a masterpiece of soul-wrenching expression. It depicted the most inner agonies of my being: Forced Alienation, looking in upon the warmth, the laughter, the food of family life, while I endured only cold starvation of the soul. Indeed, I put some of my very self into my Stained Glass piece, using my own saliva and nasal snot to work into the clay and dirt to create new depths of color.

Today, Mom washed it all away. It took but a few squirts of Windex, and my masterpiece was destroyed.

If in my next Dogster picture I am missing a body part, think of me as yet another Van Gogh.

Sad Dad

Setting: Mulligan's Half-Acre of Suburbia. Next to Mulligan's Half-Acre is a Half-Acre owned by an, ahem, Older Woman, shall I say. The family tends to her yard, her trash, and her mail.

Scene: Mom, Middle Lad and Little Lad return from Church. Oldest Lad and Dad prefer to do their praying from a prone position on Sunday mornings.

The phone rings. Dad answers. It is just one of those calls that portends no-good. How is it that a ring-tone which sounds the same toll every time can at times portend good and at times portend evil?

Dad hangs up. He looks at Mom.

Dad: "Uh, Mrs. Older Woman's CAT died. In her living room. She wants me to get it."

Mom: "Oh. Hmm. Well I'd like to help you but I must take Middle Lad down to the University to play the Piano today." Mom looks at her watch. "Looks like we'd better hurry up and eat lunch and get out of here."

Dad gives Mom a look that says: Yeah, right you really have to suddenly go all the way to the University for Middle Lad to play the piano today. How can you come up with an excuse like that on the fly. He didn't say anything, but if looks could be daggers . . . .

But really, Middle Lad has been practicing for weeks to go play at the University today. It was not for a recital, but just for a judge, so just Mom was taking him.

Pennie and I sensed that this was really starting to get interesting.

Mom: "Weeeellllll, I suppose I could help you if we hurry up. Course we don't want to stress out Middle Lad before his competition, you know."

Pennie and I agreed this was a good card for Mom to play.

Dad: "What the #*&& am I going to do with the !@$% thing!"

Mom: "Call the local pet store! Ask for our friend. He can tell you what to do. He knows everything!"

Dad called the pet store. The owner answered. He told Dad to "Bury it in the back yard."

Dad at this point was looking decidely green. I, Mulligan, have to admit Mom probably WOULD help him if she didn't have a perfectly legitimate, plausible excuse. Dad doesn't "DO" body fluids. And that's "Living" body fluids.

Dad left the house, triple latex gloved, with shovel in hand. Mom left with Middle Lad, music in hand.

I, Mulligan, shall assume that I am going to be sleeping on the COUCH with Mom tonight.

How Long to Retrieve?

Dogster says Mom is a Labrador Retriever. Exactly how long am I to give her to Retrieve an item? The DVD Remote has been missing since the middle of January. She finally found it today! The middle of March! She found it in a place she had searched many times before, wedged under fabric deep inside the recliner. What am I going to have to do to train this Woman?

I know rewards are a part of training. Dad offered to give Mom a reward for finding the remote. Mom said she was not interested in the kind of reward Dad had in mind. I was going to give Mom a cookie, but remembered in time she is trying to work off a few pounds and ate the cookie myself.

Who would have thought training a Labrador Retriever Mom would be so difficult?

I have found my Dream Job!

I was helping the Middle Lad study for a Government Test. It is important for all citizens to understand their rights and responsibilities. I proudly wear my Dog License about my neck at all times.
While study I realized I found the Perfect Job for Me, Mulligan:

1. Demands Obedience from the people.
2. Individuals are punished if they go against the ruler.
3. Opposition is not allowed.
4. The citizens have little power.

Yes, it is perfect: Dictator!

Moving out

Well, it is time for me to move on. I am not sure where I shall go. I started off as an abused stray in very poor health. When I was healthy enough I ended up at a very nice shelter. I was adopted. My family did not appreciate my head-strong ways, my superior intelligence and my attempts to redecorate -- that couch was just SOOO wrong. I went back to the shelter, where I was quite happy until Mom showed up. I put the MulCan mind meld on her and came home.

Two years plus passed. I remain a brute. I admit I am difficult. Like Mom's such a winner? Anyhoo, in August the Oldest Lad and I went for our Senior Portraits. I did not attempt to eat the photographer. Or even any of the other patrons. My pictures are STUNNING.

Enter that Interloper Pennie on the scene. Not to be outdone, she had to go for a Senior Portrait as well with Oldest Lad.

Mom put off purchasing the portraits for as long as possible until she could put off Oldest Lad no longer. Now the Oldest Lad is passing out Wallets as if he is a Chippendale Calendar Boy.

Here's the rub. More of his friends want a picture of the Lad with Pennie than want a picture of the Lad with Me, Mulligan. I have not tried to eat a single female friend that has come to the house. Now I admit to trying a little nibble of the AP Physics Rube Goldberg project partner. I was not overly friendly to the Pre-Calc Crowd. I was always nice to the swimmers -- they always smelled so nice. I may have stolen a hamburger or five from the Marching Band picnic Oldest Lad hosted. Oh, and that friend that works at the Kennel that I sometimes stay at; I was just trying to teach him the correct way to give treats to a strange dog.

The message is clear. I am unappreciated. I shall pack my bags. And all those extra wallet size pictures that nobody wants.

One Paw Ahead

I must always stay one Paw ahead of Mom. Every day she feels obligated to pack a snack for the lads to take to school. In the case of the Wee Little Lad I suppose this is understandable as he is the runt of the growth chart coming in at the 5th percentile. The snack of choice is Pepperidge Farm Goldfish Crackers. How lovely that is also MY snack of choice.

Thanks to my almost opposable thumbs and my delicate lips, it takes me approximately 12 seconds to unzip the outer pocket of a back pack and remove a zip lock bag of snack. Mom packs lunches. She deposits the lunch box in the back pack. She deposits the snack in the back pack outer pocket. While she is not looking I remove the snack and eat it. The Lads must leave for the bus at 8:42 and discover me, Mulligan, in the Utility Room consuming someone's snack. There is great Lad Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth. (Not from me of course, I am quite content.)

Mom attempts to stay one Paw ahead of me. Now she waits until 8:42 to pack the snacks.

Let me think of this, but I know in my great Mulli-Mind that I shall overcome this obstacle.

Labrador Retriever

If Dogster says Mom is a Labrador Retriever, then why can't I get her to go Retrieve me a sandwich?

Labrador, Who Knew?

Mom took the Dogster Poll and Guess What? She is a Labrador Retriever. I am going to have to Mulli this over. First off, I hardly think Mom is a pure bred. She is the youngest of six in the family and the ONLY red head. Dad traveled a lot. She looks decidedly Irish but we know there were Germans in there plus why is she the only Red Head for generations?

1. Your family is what makes you tick, and you never "flea" from an opportunity to hang out with the whole gang.
OK, agree. Mom is a Stay at homer, so apparently this fits.

2. A family picnic complete with hot dogs, deviled eggs and a refreshing swim in the lake is hard for you to stray from.
No way. Mom does not like Picnics unless they come from a takeout bag and will not step a toe in a lake. She will swim in the ocean, apparently feeling that the bacteria circulate enough in that huge volume of water but views lakes as a veritable cesspool of waste and she's not sticking her body in it.

3. Your sparky temperament and dogged intelligence mean you are not only a blast to hang out with, but great to work with as well.
Sparky TEMPERment. Yeah, to go with that Red Hair. Makes things a BLAST around without warning. Not great to work with as she is an extreme introvert and likes to work alone, preferring the company of canines to humans.

4. Your close pals appreciate your patience and forgiveness, knowing you'd rather let sleeping dogs lie than dwell on the mishaps of the past.
I have to live with the woman and prefer to plead the Fifth Amendment on this.

5. Your dashing good looks may one day lead to a modelling career, if only you can tame the unfortunate clumsiness that sometimes causes you to go flailing from the catwalk.
The only accurate part of this is the clumsiness. The woman walks like a penguin. I think she looks great, but then again, I lick my own privates.

The Retriever portion is accurate. Mom has an unbelievable memory for details. Dad always thinks that Mom has all the telephone numbers in the world memorized. Really, Mom's memory for numbers isn't so great. But Dad thinks she is a walking phone book. He is always asking her for a phone number and then when she says she doesn't know he gets really irritated at her. He is quite sure that she REALLY has it in that head of hers but wants to make him go through the effort of looking it up. I think that's just because Dad likes to exaggerate in his stories and Mom is always calling him on it, because of her eye for details. Like the time. If it is 8:42, Mom wants to know it is 8:42. Dad is fine with 8:30 or Ten 'til Nine. It's tough being married to a former Lab Tech.
Maybe I should take the quiz for Mom. I bet she's really a Pit Bull and should only be living with people specially trained to handle her.

Less than a week to make my plan!

St. Patricks' Day is less than a week away! I had THE PERFECT PLAN this year to capture that wily Leprechaun. I thought about it all year. This is what I was going to do: I have carefully watched Dad at the computer. I know his password to the online Investment Accounts. Right before St. Patrick's Day I was going to cash in all the Investments for Cash. I was going to Buy Gold. Boy, that was going to be it. The Perfect Lure. A big pile of Gold to bring in the Leprechaun. Who knows, perhaps I would catch two or three Leprechauns.

Then the Stock Market Tanked.

Now we are poor. Stocks aren't worth selling for cash. No cash for gold. No gold for catching a Leprechaun.

I must devise another plan.

Perfect House

I am not enjoying the White Death. The snow in the back yard reaches all the way to my tummy. It makes it rather difficult to, ah, take care of my personal back yard business. I do find some of it is all up to how I have trained my humans. Mom forces me outside. I go outside and pee. I look pathetic. Then Mom gets a handful of treats and throws them in the back yard. I search for them in the snow and reward her by finishing up with more body waste. Then she will let me inside the house. Why does she find my body waste so rewarding? It must be that with the lads all well out of diapers she can't focus on their body waste anymore.

While shoveling the driveway Mom created a huge snow pile. The Little Lad decided he wanted it turned into an IGLOO! At first I was worried. Was Mom going to think that I, Mulli of the MidWest was going to want to be some Northern Snow Dog and sleep in an Igloo? Then I realized it was out of range of my e-collar. But Little Lad doesn't wear an e-collar! How about if Little Lad lives in the Igloo! It's just his size! Then Dad can have Little Lad's bed, and I can have more room in the bed with Mom. Dad can even move Little Lad's bed into Mom and Mulli's room and we can turn that empty room into an office, getting Dad out of his basement Dungeon Office. Perfect. A Perfect House for Little Lad, a Perfect House solution for Mulligan.

I Vow to get back at HER.

There was no way I was going out this morning. Into the White Death. Mom knew this. She took a handful of treats and threw them out the door. Without a thought I ran outside into those piles of White Death. Darn my taste buds. Drat that Mommy. She watched as I ran and poked my large cranium into that snow looking for those treats. She had me. She had me. Only after I had done all of my business was I allowed back in.
I am going to get even with her. I am done with her.
I don't like: She makes me wait until 6:00 to have dinner.
She now puts food in the microwave to cool, with the door open, (to avoid condensation) so that I can not reach it and consume it. The microwave is too high for me to reach as it is above the stove.
She wipes me with Baby Wipes, yes Baby Wipes! when I get muddy. I admit am a clean dog, but must it be Baby Wipes?
I think I shall spend the whole day working on my list.

What should I do?

Oh dear, the entire region is under a ginormous snow storm and now it has been further upgraded to a BLIZZARD! I am certain I shall be lost. Why, oh, why must I be a White dog. Pennie is so lucky she is a brown dog. Oh, if I can only hold it until the blizzard subsides and I don't have to worry about losing myself outside. What if I go outside and I can't see myself and I get lost? With my e-collar on I could wander around the square footage of my yard for hours, flinching at each contact with the fence, but never finding my way back to the back door. Under the influence of too many men in her long life -- four older brothers, and then whelping only Sons, Mom has slowly evolved away from being Female. Thus, there is no Hair Dye anywhere in the house. Mom is content with red hair turning gray. No chance of a last minute dye job for my beautiful pelt.
Perhaps I can crash-course toilet train myself.

Home Schooling

The Lads are home from school early today. Why do Americans pay most of their income in taxes to the government for Public Schools when I can provide a full account that the children rarely actually attend those Public Schools? Are we raising a bunch of Pansies? What happened to the American Spirit that withstood hard winters at Plymouth (what a stupid place to set up camp, if you ask me), the snow at Donner Pass, the Locusts and Starvation of the Great Plains, and the Fevers of Jamestown?

All of Cincinnati is shutting down because of a mere threat of a blizzard. Isn't the education, excuse me, the Publicly Funded by Tax Payer Dollars Education, most Important? Why can't the students STAY at School? Yes, the schools all have those ginormous walk in freezers stocked full of Super Wedge Pizzas with no Trans-Fats and the Students could spend hours and hours learning their Math Facts and how to stop GreenHouse Gases from ruining the environment.

Instead, I am once again forced to share my day with the Lads. I feel that I must begin a program of Home Schooling. I don't wish to offend those who do indeed Home School; but Mom must spend her time with ME, with leaves out Home Schooling the Lads. That is what Taxes are for.

Campaign Harassment

How can a dog get anything done on Election Day? I protect the North, South, East, and West Borders of my Half-Acre of Suburbia. I protect it to a depth not to exceed that covered by Mineral Rights. I protect to a Height not to extend into United States Air Space.

How can I protect my Half-Acre and my Mom from the constant barage of candidates asking for her to vote for them, and now that it is past mid-day; asking if she will please tell them how she voted?

Oh, if I could just remove my e-collar I would run over to campaign headquarters and show those candidates a thing or two about phone harassment. I wonder if they are serving any good hors d-oevres to the workers? Or pizza? Hmm. Darned e-collar.

How Long?

The Oldest Lad is still the Gimpy Lad. No, scratch that. He hasn't even made it to being Gimpy. If he were a horse . . . well, I am afraid that we would be picking out a very nice urn for him about now. Mom has been spending all of her time caring for the Lad. She has to care for Me, Pennie, Middle Lad, and Little Lad. Yet she has completely neglected us to care for the Oldest Lad and his knee. All day long she is up the stairs and down the stairs bringing him food and strapping his leg in and out of it's brace and it's leg machine. That is just not the way things should be. I alone require a lot of care. Clearly it is time for Mom to let go of the Oldest Lad and focus on the healthy ones . . . . Perhaps while the Oldest Lad has his leg strapped into that leg machine of his some sort of "accident" will have to happen to him . . . .

Strange Question

Today, Mom was paying bills. Then she had to run downstairs to take care of the Oldest Lad's Leg. I used that as an opportunity to go through her purse. I took out her gum, a fresh pack. I ate all the pieces.

When Mom came back up, she looked at me and asked:
"Mulligan . . . . Do you ever get the least bit tired of yourself?"

No. I really don't ever get tired of myself.

Pay Back Time

The Oldest Lad is home now. His leg is straight while in the brace. It is bending continuously while in his Continuous Passive Motion Machine. The Lad is Entroned upon the Futon in the basement with the TV remotes, the XBox remotes, the XBox360 remotes, his Laptop and Mom at his total beck and call.

Ah, yes, let the wars begin.

The Middle Lad and the Youngest Lad have been told they are banished from the basement. Hmm. Wonder how long that shall last. What exactly can the Oldest Lad do? His crutches are only 4 feet long. Mom already removed all the foam dart and foam ball guns from his reach. My guess is the Middle and Youngest Lad shall start extracting pay backs for all the daily torments the Oldest Lad hands out to them as soon as they return home from school and discover his pathetic state. Oldest Lad may regret hanging Youngest Lad's Care Bears from the chandelier in the foyer. Oldest Lad may rue the day he tried to force Middle Lad to eat broccoli.

I am usually on the side of the Oldest Lad, but what use is he to me right now? He can't take me for a drive or a walk. He can't bend over to feed me. I don't want to sleep on the futon with Motion Machine. In fact, I don't actually like to go in the basement.

Hey, what can I say? I am an Alpha. I am not supposed to have any sympathy for the weak and sick. If this was the wild, I would be forced to eat him.

I could save a lot of money

The Oldest Lad is preparing for his ACL knee surgery. Anterior Cruciate Ligament. He tore it during a game of "Band Football." Yes. "Band Football." A "Euphonium," which is a member of the Low Brass, tackled him, an "Alto Saxophone." Apparently, as a Woodwind, he was not designed to take the impact from a Low Brass.

Today a woman appeared at the house with two pieces of equipment for the Oldest Lad to use during his recovery. The first is an Ice Machine. Instead of having to rely upon a family member to bring him ice packs on a continuous basis, this machine gets filled up with ice and delivers a continous flow of cool to the needed body part, in this case the knee.

First money saving tip: It is only 33 degrees outside. Bundle up the Oldest Lad, except for the leg upon which the surgery is performed, and have him sit outside. We have a tent. Just stick the leg out of the zippered door.

The second piece of equipment is a Continuous Passive Motion machine. It is a device that enables the Oldest Lad to lay, yes LAY, and watch TV, while this machine bends his leg over and over. He is to do this for Six hours a day for the next 12 days.

Second money saving tip: If the point is to keep the leg moving so it doesn't seize up then how about if the lad walks me, Mulligan, for six hours a day for the next 12 days? That will also keep the other leg in shape, too. And save all that electricity on the TV and powering that machine.

There. I have just saved Mom and Dad their part of the bill, the insurance their part of the bill, and the environment it's part of the bill.

Six hours of walking with crutches. 3 miles out, 3 miles back with crutches. I think we can make it all the way to McDonald's for a cheeseburger.

Simple Algebra

If a = b, and b = c, and c= d, then a = d. Simple Algebra. Even Mom can get that.

OK. I am a Male. It has been shown that males are actually more turned on to baking smells than to perfumes. This simple fact has yet to make it to the twenty something crowd; but the reality is that they would be far more likely to catch a mate by going to their local grocery store than to that expensive perfume store. Head to the spice section and buy a bottle of Pure Vanilla Extract. (Not the imitation kind.) Dab some on the neck, wrists, and behind the ears. Or pick up a jar of cinnamon sugar. This can be made at home from cinnamon and sugar or bought premade. Sprinkle liberally about oneself. Head out for the evening.

Back to the fact that I am a male. And I am a Dog. I have an even more acute nose than the average male. In fact much of the security, internal and external of this great Country depends upon Dogs with their keen senses of smell. Where would the Free World be without the Drug Sniffers, Bomb Sniffers, and Trackers of the Canine Breed?

This morning Mom made Cinnamon Toast for the Middle Lad to take for lunch. First off, this is flawed in and of itself in that said Cinnamon Toast is going to be a leathery mass by the time it is actually lunch time. Regardless, the Lad has eschewed the Ketchup Sandwich after all these years and His Royal Pickiness must eat something at mid-day.

While Mom was at the kitchen table serving cereal, I, Mulligan, swiped the Cinnamon Toast from the counter.

Now, considering that: I am a Male. I am a Dog. The toast was sprinkled liberally with Cinnamon Sugar, shouldn't Mom have been pleased, complimented; even been congratulating me upon my deed instead of saying &)( $$$%*, Mulligan!

No more showers for this dog

When it's cold outside I get to bath in the comfort and privacy of the family bath. I am not fond of the cleansing ritual but I do admit that the warm water is much preferable to the cold hose water and the embarassment of bathing in the driveway.

This weekend was an Alfred Hitchcock movie marathon on the AMC channel. After watching "Psycho," I do not plan to put a single paw into the bathtub ever again. Warm water or not.

What do I do?

Tonight Mom was "supposedly" at a Church Function. She came home stinking of another DOG! What am I ever to do? I trusted her. And then pulls a stunt like this. And to use a Church Event as an excuse. Hmphf.

Never will understand them (youngsters this time, not women)

I just do not understand the Lads. Tonight Mom was making supper. Pennie and I were keeping a watchful eye to make sure she was following the recipe. Little Lad was watching too and being a pest, in my opinion, with a stool pulled right up to the counter, not staying underfoot, like me. Little Lad knocked into Mom's arm as she was pouring frozed sliced carrots from the bag into another container. Instead of using these carrots in the recipe, Mom began to toss them to Pennie and I. I never realized that Frozen Carrots were so delectable.

Soon Oldest Lad appeared and asked Mom what she was making. She said "Chicken Pot Pie." Oldest Lad immediately looked mystified, for this did not look like the "usual" Chicken Pot Pie.
Oldest Lad asked: "Good and Bland?"
Mom: "No. It's not "Good and Bland." It's a recipe from Paula Deen's cook book. I thought we could try something new."
Oldest Lad: "Well, I like "Good and Bland." And look, there's a bottom crust. Pot Pie isn't supposed to have a bottom crust. I don't know if I am even going to eat it."
Mom, feeling a bit put-out: "Fine. Don't eat it."

First off, "Good and Bland," is the name given to Mom's normal recipe for Pot Pie. Once when Dad was trying to encourage Middle Lad to try a bite, Dad said: "Come on, you've go to like it. How can anyone not like your Mom's pot pie. It's Good and Bland."
Mom was a bit miffed and went to that cookbook and crossed out the normal recipe title and wrote in "Good and Bland. There the new title remains, forever.

I, Mulligan, am quite mystified. How can the Lads refuse to try something new, that so obviously has all the makings of a hit? Why, I would eat it without any crust at all. I would eat it off the floor. I would eat it without a fork. Excuse me, I am drooling on the computer.

Update:
I almost burnt my head off with that new Pot Pie. Yep, while Mom was peeking in on it, I actually stuck my head a few inches INTO the oven. At dinner, Middle Lad did not eat it, but he doesn't eat anything; that was to be expected. Oldest Lad DID try it, bottom crust, instead of top crust like "Good and Bland", and all. Oldest Lad begrudgingly admitted that it was "OK," but could have used some corn instead of just peas and carrots. (He just wasn't going to let Mom win on this.) Dad consumed and consumed with relish, declaring it a winner and a "must make again." Me, well, they didn't even let me lick the plates! I helped Mom make it, nearly burnt my head off checking on it, and then I didn't even get a little scrap!

Higher Learning

The Oldest Lad is going to be Institutionalized next year. I am not sure exactly what he has done. I have not been told because, alas, I have loose lips and may not keep the secret. Regardless, I do not understand why I have not been involved in the selection process of this institute of higher learning. Over the weekend the lad made a second visit to his first (and only) choice to write an essay in the hopes that Mom and Dad would have to cough up less money to have the Lad Institutionalized.

What I am finding most disturbing is that I have not been consulted in the least. No. One would think that such an important decision would require my opinion. Shouldn't I be allowed to SMELL the campus? TASTE the food served in the dining hall? MARK the places where the stale beer has been spilled? GROWL at the professors? RUB up against the Coeds?

Mom and Dad have taken me to their old campus several times. I have marked all over it. I have not eaten in the dining hall, but I did find a really old stale hamburger lying in the street that I ate in one bite. Why hasn't the Oldest Lad taken me to this place of his consideration? I understand that at this critical age the lad is rejecting his bonds to Mom and Dad, alas that is why they are having him Institutionalized in a place of Higher Education next year, but does he have to reject me as well?

Global Warming

Global Warming. It's all my fault. It's my gas. I can't help it. What am I going to do if the government finds out? Or worse, Al Gore?

Momentous Day

It was a momentous day, an epoch, so to speak, the end of an era, in the life of the family. Today not only marked Singles Awareness day, as Valentine's Day truly is, but an occasion in Middle Lad's life. Middle Lad bought his lunch at school today. Yes. For the first time in his six years of eating in that multi-purpose room that in the middle hours of the days transforms itself into the school cafeteria the lad did not BRING his LLBean blue insulated lunch tote. The lad lined up with the other "buyers" and bought a slice of "Super Wedge Pizza." No sides. No government sanctioned milk. Delicate taste buds do have their limits after all. Of all the days, Middle Lad left his Epi-Pen at home, but Mom brought it up to him, shrouded in it's Hip Pack and strapped it about his waist, about the time the Middle Lad was half-way through the "Super Wedge Pizza" andMiddle Lad pronounced to Mom that it was indeed "Good."

It has been 2 hours and no ambulance sirens have been heard wailing. (There is in fact another Epi-Pen at school, in the office, so the lad was actually never without an Epi-Pen.)

Is the era of the Ketchup Sandwich over?

Clever, heh?

Valentine's is beginning to line up. Dad is eh, sadly, going to be out of town on business. Hmm. Guess that leaves me to woo Mom on that day of Love, doesn't it?

Then again, there's not much to beat. Dad's version of romance:
On a recent grocery outing. Dad not being much of a food shopper. His version of food selection comes to knowing how to order a Biggie Size Number 3.
Dad: "I appreciate you so much, you know that don't you, dear. Especially when it comes to food selection."

Yep, the night shall be MINE!

A Dog's work is never done

Mom set out today for yet another trip to the grocery store. Upon her return I was beset by my usual task of inspecting all the items. I also help her put everything away, which entails going through the items currently in stock and discarding any expired items. It is an enjoyable time of bonding as I advise Mom on the nutritional value of food stocks and the intimate details of kitchen organization. It is a shame that every Homemaker does not have access to the keen organization sense that I have.

First we battled the Lazy Susan cabinet to try to fit in the 9 bottles of ketchup with all the other foodstuff. One might wonder why a family would need 9 bottles of ketchup. Alas if a certain middle lad family member uses ketchup as if it indeed is a major food group, then at all costs one must never run out of that sacred condiment. A casual observer may suggest buying a larger bottle. This was tried once. Once. With the fine motor skills of the middle lad it was fortunate that this attempt to use a much larger bottle was done prior to painting the walls, ceiling and getting new cabinets.

The cereal cabinet was done next. Yes, a whole cabinet devoted for cereal. There are always several boxes where there is just a small amount of cereal left in the box. Not enough for a serving. Not enough for the eater to feel obligated to get off their lazy arse and throw the box away. And certainly no one would dare MIX the cereal. What if General Mills found out and the General authorized a Lucky Charms Missile Strike upon our house because those magical marshmallows were mixed with the Cap'n Crunch? Pennie and I obliged by polishing off a small amount of cereal. We also hit the Jackpot by eating most of a box of an "Un-named" new cereal that the family decided was just plain yucky.

Ah, I love Grocery Shopping Day! Today I even behaved and did not steal a single item from any of the bags. Oh, not that I didn't grab a bag of shredded cheese that Mom dropped. She was too quick and grabbed it from me and put it into the refrigerator. Getting all that cereal more than made up for it.

PETA, Fair, and Tax Fraud!

Wait until PETA finds out about this. First off, I must warn the Tax Paying Citizens of this great country. Today the Middle Lad participated in the local PUBLIC School Spnsored Science Fair. Yes, Public School, meaning Public Tax Dollars hard at work. With my overly-large Cranium I am a strong proponent of Education, especially for the great un-washed masses of humanity. But the use of Public Funds for the Absurdities that went on at this so-called Fair, oh, I am foaming I am so angry, there was hardly anything "Fair" about it.

The Oldest Lad participated in the Science Fair several years ago, before my Tenure here, and Tyler may his canine soul rest in peace, of course, made sure that the Goldfish used in the experiment were all ethically treated, fed well, given full access to Internet, Cable TV, and Exercise. (Free-Range Goldfish, so to speak.) The Oldest Lad's project went on to achieve accolades all the way up to the State Level, including monetary rewards, which he duly shared with the Goldfish.

Anyhoo. All Science Fair participants who use Animals or Humans must fill out and vow to follow quite lengthy paperwork involving the ethical treatment of the research subjects.
What about the Subjectees? Numerous dogs, cats, and even mice were used in projects. Were any of them actually "asked" if they wished to participate? Were they allowed to "read" in their own language, with the aid of an interpretor if needed, all the information about what was to be done to them? Were they informed that their pictures were going to be stared at, indeed Judged by an entire Suburb of Over-Achievers whose only interest was their failure in the hopes that their own off-spring would merit a higher rating from the science fair judges? There was even a mouse present at the Fair. Was he "asked" if he indeed wished to spend his Saturday morning stared at by those thousands of over-achievers proclaiming him as cute while in reality thinking how stupid his project was compared to their own darling's project?

Oh, it pains me to think that the Public Schools condone students to wantonly use animals for their own gain. The poor dog who could not find the ball in the backyard IQ test; did he realize that he would become the ridicule of the entire East Side of Cincinnati? The Mouse who secretly prefers classical music to hard rock. Are there no private matters of the rodent heart? There was nothing "fair" about science to these animals.

Nominees Platform

If my W2 would just arrive, then I would be a tax-paying citizen. Regardless, I can still voice my opinion for tax-payers about the lack of education going on in our PUBLICALLY FUNDED, ie your MONEY NOT at work, Public Schools.

Immediately, whomsoever should become the candidate of either party should adopt a firm platform of reform for our obviously inept Public Schools. Oh, if I could vote. Alas, that is denied to me as my electronic collar does not allow me to leave the domain of my yard to go to my local polling station.

Today. Yes today, the Oldest Lad was Sleeping At School. Yes, in fact his whole AP Physics class was sleeping in school. That's what the students did for the whole class period. The students slept on a bed of nails. If the Lad is simply going to spend his day sleeping on a bed of nails then why can't he simply be graduated and sent out to earn money to pay his own taxes instead of continuing to welch off the stretched public school system? That teacher can take his beds of nails and teach some other class such as Geometry or Calculus.

Dream Job

Yes, I suppose that Jelly originally came up with the idea but it has set met to pondering. It is well known that I aspire to be the Alpha, the CEO. But really, why stop at being the CEO of this Family? Is that really my Glass Ceiling? Or do I aspire to break through even that with further career ambitions?

After much thought I came to the conclusion that I do not want to be the Alpha of the entire world. That is surprizing, I suppose, but at heart I do wish to spend each night at home, sharing the bed with Mom, and to keep her happy, with Dad as well. Besides, history does show that those bent on world domination seldom fare well in the history books.

I have therefore come up with some other jobs I feel suit me better.

District Attorney. Innocent? or Guilty? Wi