August 29th 2011 1:58 pm
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A couple of diary entries ago, I told you about my Finknottle women ancestors. My dad's lineage was no less impressive.
One of the earliest records of the Finknottle men was from the early part of the 20th Century, when one of my forefathers became a big-game hunting partner with Theodore Roosevelt. While they were stalking the fabled jaguar of South America, Teddy dropped his glasses in the jungle, and they were immediately swallowed by an anaconda the size of Massachusetts. But that snake made a BIG mistake!
My dad dove down the snake's gullet to retrieve Teddy's specs. Dear readers, did you ever wonder where I got my magnificently muscled thunder thighs? From my pop. And speaking of "pop," all he had to do to escape the belly of the mighty beast was to kick both of his legs with all of his might, and snake busted apart! Fadder stood on his two legs amongst the slime and muck that was the remains of the burst reptile, stretched his paws toward the sky and let out a primal bark/scream to the heavens. (You know that's a really, really dramatic gesture -- falling on his knees (well, his haunches, since dog knees don't work that way) like Willem Dafoe in "Platoon" or Tim Robbins in "The Shawshank Redemption." Only it was way, way, way more dramatic when my fadder did it).
For he knew he was the apex predator of the universe. Yep! It's true!
So a few years later, World War I began, and my fadder decided to enlist and became a war dog. He discovered right away that war is heck. But he saved an entire batalion. Or, I should say, his thighs did. Because when the hithertofore untested modern weapons began firing, his comrades were in trouble. Where could they hide? Well, dear old dad knew what to do. He immediately began digging trenches for the GIs to hide in, and he dug so hard and so fast that dirt flew miles into the sky and hit the Red Baron in the head while he was flying overhead and caused him to crash his plane. So the flying ace was defeated, and the soldiers had trenches to duck into.
Sopwith Camel. (That kind of WWI plane isn't part of this story, but I never miss an opportunity to say "Sopwith Camel" because it's cool. Sopwith Camel!)
Yes, my fadder's bloodline provided a worthy match for my arse-biting ancestresses.
So, back in 2002, they lived on the same street. Their eyes met, sparks flew, planets exploded, pigs flew and camels sopwithed.
And then, bim, bam boom, I was born a few weeks later.
Yes, theirs was a true romance, which was tragically cut short when my fadder's nads were tragically cut off by the tragically evil vet. Such a tragic tragedy! But, then again, maybe the world couldn't deal with more than one Finknottle. The combination of my superb arse-biting skills and the muscular magnificence of my thunder thighs shan't be duplicated!
Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a Sopwith Camel to fly!
July 26th 2011 7:31 pm
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You know how I heroically led the mission to kill Osama bin Laden? Well, apparently it irked some of his fellow terrorists. They poisoned and imprisoned me. They got their revenge.
But I got mine, too!
Last Sunday, I woke Finkmom up at 4 a.m. throwing up. I barfed and barfed, then drank water several times, then barfed some more. Then, about 6 a.m., the bloody diarrhea started.
This scared the crap out of Finkmom, who is inexperienced with these sorts of covert international underground wars. What was making me sick? Did I eat something I shouldn't have? Did she give me too much cheese?
Ha! As though a creature as mighty as myself could get sick from cheese? Bah! I knew the terrorists were behind this!
She got really scared and whisked my bucket off to the "emergency vet clinic."
Ha! Some clinic! While my mudder was anxiously waiting for the vet for about three hours, naively thinking she'd taken me to a place where I would be cared for, I KNEW -- yes, KNEW -- that this was really the terrorists own version of Guantanamo Bay. My poor, stupid, uninformed mudder was playing right into the evildoers' hands!
Then, the worst happened. They STOLE me from my Finkmom! The "vets" told her they were taking X-rays (they were radiating me -- nay, microwaving me -- trying to give me a dread disease!), taking blood samples (they tried to suck my precious bodily fluids dry!), and, of course, collecting a STOOL SAMPLE! (arse-violating me!).
And this is the really disturbing part (like the assault on my bucket wasn't disturbing enough!): They persuaded Finkmom to abandon me (sob!!! er ... I mean "GRRR!") The vet gave her some absurd story about how I had hemorragic gastroenteritis and that they didn't know what caused it but that I needed to spend the night and get IV fluids and antibiotics. And then my mudder burst into tears and kept telling the vet how I get cold and need extra blankets (Gah! As if!!! I laugh at the cold! I drop ice cubes down the drawers of frigidity! But I digress ...).
She didn't want to leave me with strangers. I didn't want her to leave me, either, but I knew that the evil trap she unwittingly landed me in was too rough for her to deal with.
This situation, my friends, called for some SERIOUS Finknottling.
And that's when I knew I'd have to fight terrorism with terrierism. So I did!!!
After sticking needles into my arms they hooked me up to their truth serum. They wanted to know where I would next unleash an arse-bite of freedom.
I had to fight back. So I chewed through my IV line. Three times.
Then they put a Medieval torture collar on me -- OK, a Renaissance torture collar on me. And I chewed that up, too!
They sat me on a rubber mat and some piddle pads. And I gnawed on them, too, all in an effort to tunnel my way out of their torture cage!
They wanted to hook me up to some evil electrical device, no doubt to torture me with until I revealed the secrets of my next covert mission.
I chewed through the cable.
By the next day, they gave up and told Finkmom she could have me back. By then, the poison al-Qaida had ingeniously injected into my kibble had worn off.
And as I was making my final escape from my captors into the arms of my mudder, I got my revenge on Finkmom for getting me into this mess.
I messed. On my mudder. I got poop all over her arms and shirt and purse. Haha! She didn't even care! She was so happy to have me back, she didn't mind a bit.
Well, maybe a little bit, but she was glad she hadn't been bit -- in the arse! She really deserved it for taking me there in the first place, but I think I got my point across by crapping on her without shedding her butt blood.
I am all better now, and Finkmom is being very careful about what she feeds me. The vet's office charged her $20 for all the stuff I chewed up. (Plus more than $1,000 more!) Can you believe the nerve? I was shocked. Last time I looked on my way out the door, they were curled up in the floor crying because of how I'd terrierized them the night before.
They won't soon forget Gussie Finknottle. That is for sure!
June 30th 2011 8:06 pm
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Today is my birthday. Actually, Finkmom had to estimate the day of my birth because she didn't meet me until I was a few weeks old.
She tells a story of my origins that must be complete fiction. It is too mundane to be about the creation of a Finknottle as mighty and magnificent as me.
Her version of events is as follows: Her friend's mom's yorkie
got knocked up by the rat terrier down the street, and bing, bam, boom, out pops Gussie Finknottle a few weeks later.
O Henry, she ain't.
So let me recount the epic tale of the origins of the Finknottle.
My birf mudder was a beautiful yorkie whose painting hangs in the Louvre two nails down from the Mona Lisa. She was descended from a long line of magnificent English beeyatches who have inspired artistic geniuses through the ages: Mozarf, dog Vinci, Pawcy Sheltie -- they were all spurred to create masterpieces because of ancestors.
But the Finknottle women, though beautiful, also had an innate stealthiness and strength of jaw to bite arses through the ages. Anytime. Anywhere. And, though it's never been acknowledged by hisstorians (I say "hiss"torians because (didn't you know?) CATS wrote the history books in those days, and they hissed with rage at the thought of giving us dogs our due in their tomes. But I digress).
Yes, the Finknottle girls shaped the course of hisstory. A few facts:
1. Napolean did not flee into exile on the island of St. Helena because he was defeated at Waterloo. What really happened? During the battle, the Duke of Wellington released his Yorkie beeyatch, who ran across the battlefield and spooked Napolean's horse. It bucked him, he hit the ground and immediately felt an agonizing pain in his left buttock. My great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandbeeyatch had sunk her teeth into his butt and refused to let go until he left continental Europe, never to return. The mysterious circumstances in which he died? Buttock wound abscess. It happens. Sacre bleu!
2. After terrorizing London's Whitechapel slums for months, Jack the Ripper suddenly stopped killing. Many hisstorians say he ceased his evil activities because he must have died or left the city. The truth is that my great-great-etc.-grandbeeyatch was the first fully-trained ninja dog employed by Scotland Yard. By the time she was finished ripping the arse of The Ripper, he would never be able to sit again. As he was fleeing London, clutching his rump, crying, he lost his way in the fog, accidentally ran into a crumpet factory, slipped on a puddle of Yorkshire pudding, tripped over a box of hobnobs, fell into a vat of clotted cream and was never seen again.
But, tired of the constant hounding from MI6 to perform increasingly dangerous missions that invariably left her silky, gorgeous hair in tangles, my beautiful ancestresses came to America.
End Part I
June 1st 2011 6:35 pm
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My mudder is always worrying about something about me. I’m healthy as a horse, but she’s always doing silly things to try to keep me young.
No, she didn’t make me get Botox, which is good, since I have fur!
But she’s been getting a scare about the wear and tear on my joints from me jumping down from my 3-foot full-size bed onto the floor (yes, the bed I let her sleep in with me. Cuz I’m nice like that).
Of course, I haven’t been injured. I don’t limp. I don’t groan when I land in the floor. But she decided to get me some stairs anyway, in order to protect my joints.
Well, how in the heck am I supposed to stay in top, covert, bin-Laden arse-biting form if she turns me into a weenie? (A weenie as in a wimp, not a weenie as in a dachshund, because those weenie dawgs ain’t no weenies!)
How does she think I developed these thunder thighs, with muscles that are so strong they can crush the wrist of a terrorist who is reaching for an AK-47?
It’s from jumping up on the bed! And from pulling when we go for our walks. (OK, my fantastic musculature probably is mostly from pulling. I’ve got places to go! People to see! Arses to bite! Speed up, woman!)
But since she blew a wad of cash on the stairs, and since she has been “training” me to use them by leading me up and down them with treats, I am humoring her and using them sometimes. (Sometimes I forget, and she has to remind me). But I just had to demonstrate my physical prowess during this silly exercise by getting more and more excited wanting to get the treat out of her hand, until I climbed about 2 of the 5 steps, then leapt in an arc onto the bed, pouncing on the hand that held my precious chicken bit. She had to laugh.
She still has to have a few more “training” sessions with me to get me in the habit of using the stairs. That’s fine with me, since I get extra chicken. And, really, it’s good for me, too, because as long as I’m leaping, I’m still exercising my thunder thighs. I have to keep them in good condition, because my insurance premiums will go up if I don’t.
Oh … didn’t I tell you? Like Betty Grable, I had my legs insured by Lloyd’s of London for a cool $1 million. Well, really I just had my thighs insured. But counting for inflation since the 1940s, a cool million for half of my legs is about right.
May 30th 2011 5:13 pm
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"I have been immortalized in a stunning work of art!" – Blanche Deveraux, “The Golden Girls”
As all my pup pals know, I am cute. Alarmingly cute. Stunningly cute. My little button nose. My bushy eyebrows. My wispy beard. The fairy feet, shiny bwack wip, little crooked wegs and cocktail-wiener tail. And don’t forget my bucket whirlpools (the ones on either side of my arse, not the one in the middle, although I think the one in the middle is cute).
I could go on, but we’d be here all night …
But what you might not have realized before now (although you SHOULD have! Grrr!) is just how beautiful I am.
My silhouette. My luxurious fur (OK, my undercarriage is almost bald, but the rest of my fur is gorgeous, dangnabbit!). My chocolate brown eyes (wait a minute! I’d better not call them chocolate, or Finkmom is likely to try to eat my eyes! She’s an addict!).
I could go on, but we’d be here for another night …
But Finkmom recognized my gorgeousness, and she commissioned a portrait of me. My mudder works at a newspaper with an artist named Don Wood who, in addition to being a top-notch illustrator, is a wonderful painter. And, voila! It’s me!
I have to admit, I was a little disappointed that Finkmom didn’t hire him to paint my image on the dome of the Capitol in Washington, D.C. It’s really the only building in America worthy of my image. As it is now, my portrait is prominently displayed in our apartment. I think it should at least hang in some museum alongside a da Vinci and maybe a Rembrandt.
(It doesn’t belong with Picasso’s work, though, and thank goodness for that. Otherwise, my bunghole would be on my chin and my eyes in my armpits if it was painted after his style!).
I think Finkmom must be careful about who sees my portrait, because the curators at The Louvre might come and try to steal it for their collection. See my mysterious smile? Forget about Mona Lisa. The Mona Gussie smile will be even more famous.
(Actually, I was smiling in the photo the portrait was painted from because the ants in the grass I was sitting on were tickling my butt, and I was kind of getting into it. Hey, maybe that’s what was making M.L. smile, too! Those Renaissance dames were w-i-l-d)!
May 6th 2011 6:56 pm
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Finkmom: So, uh, Gussie, we need to have a little talk.
Finknottle: Oh, no. This isn’t one of those “freshness” talks like in the commercials, is it?
Finkmom: No. Absolutely not. I need to talk to you about this claim that you helped kill Osama bin Laden.
Finknottle: What do you mean “claim????” I DID help kill him. And I bit his arse while I was doing it! Pssshhhhh! “Claim!” HA!
Finkmom: Now, Gussie, the truth is that, according to The Associated Press and numerous other reputable news organizations, President Obama met the men AND the hero dog who went on that raid. It was during a visit today at Ft. Campbell, Ky.
Finknottle: You don’t have to tell me. I was there.
Finkmom: Gussie, the dog who went on that raid was a Belgian Malinois named “Cairo.”
Finknottle: Yes … Cairo is my code name. Yes, my code name. And calling me a Belgian Malinois is part of my cover so I can raid again with the SEALs. It all makes perfect sense. Sheesh, you are slow, mudder.
Finkmom: Gussie! It makes no sense!
Finknottle: OK, let me explain. Uh … OK … I’m going to explain this to you … hmmm …
Finkmom: I’m waiting!
Finknottle: Well, you know that da Nile ain’t no river in Egypt, and it is a river … no denying that …
Finknottle: Errr … well … OH! Wait! I’ve got it! My code name is Cairo because of my sphincter!
Finknottle: You know how I’m famous for my sphincter. I mean I’m always talking about how the vet violates it and how I’m such a small dog but I poop so big, which makes me famous for my sphincter …
Finknottle: Well, Cairo is where the ancient giant Sphincter is!
Finkmom: I think you mean the Sphinx.
Finknottle: That’s what I said. “Sphincter.” And so, just as the ancient ruins of the Great Sphincter is in Cairo, the great dog sphincter is in Finknottle, so it makes perfect scents … I mean perfect “sense” why my code name is Cairo.
Finkmom: Oh, sheesh …
Finknottle: And they tell people I’m Belgian, even though I’m not, because … uh … cuz … er … that’s where the waffles come from!!!
Finkmom: I don’t follow you.
Finknottle: What do I say when I bark?
Finkmom: Uh, “woof,” I guess …
Finknottle: Close! I say “waff!” “Waffwaff!” But it is spelled w-a-f-f-l-e. The “L” and the “E” are silent. That’s because it’s fancy Belgianspeak, and they spell stuff funny …
Finkmom: I’m getting a headache …
Finknottle: So, I think that explains why the story said the hero dog – who is moi – is a Belgian named Cairo. Any more questions?
Finknottle: Actually, yes. You did not go to Kentucky today to meet the president. You couldn’t have made it there and back while I was at work.
Finknottle: Ha!!! As a matter of fact, I DID go there today!
Finkmom: That isn’t possible, Gussie.
Finknottle: Ha! Hahaha! Ha! HA! HAhaHAhaHA!!! You know nothing of our covert capabilities!
Finkmom: Well, tell me about them, then.
Finknottle: I cannot! It is top secret! It involves a titanium kite, a rocket-propelled grenade launcher and several gallons of lard. I’d tell you more, but then I’d have to …
Finkmom: … bite my arse …
Finknottle: You catch on quick! And if you question my heroics again, I might have to nip your rump anyway!
May 4th 2011 1:45 pm
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Finknottle: Isn't it exciting? A hero dog who was wearing heavy armor and infrared night-sight eye gear helped get Osama bin Laden!
Finkmom: What a brave doggie! That is awesome!
Finknottle: Well, you know while you were asleep the other night, I snuck out of bed and flew to Pakistan for this mission. I am the hero dog!!!
Finkmom: Wait a second ...
Finknottle: NO! It was me! Only it wasn't like the story said. I wasn't strapped to a Navy SEAL's back when he slid down the rope from the helicoptor. I slid down it myself by my thunder thighs, which I wrapped around the rope!
Finkmom: Gussie, I don't believe ...
Finknottle: SILENCE!!! See the chaffing on my thighs from sliding down the rope?
Finkmom: I don't see anything, and besides, you would have been wearing armor on your thunder thighs ...
Finknottle: NO! I ... I ... uh ... left my thighs free so I could use them as a weapon to squeeze ... uh ... to squeeze Osama's neck and strangle him!
Finkmom: Your thighs are too small and muscular to fit around someone's neck ...
Finknottle: His wrist! Yes, his wrist! I squeezed his wrist so he had to drop his weapon ...
Finkmom: The White House now says he was unarmed.
Finknottle: He was unarmed once I got through with him! Then I bit his arse! I jumped up and ripped out a chunk of arse and shoved it down his throat!!!
Finkmom: Gussie, you are making this up, aren't ...
Finknottle: SHUT YOUR CAKE HOLE, MOMMY! You have no idea the secret life I lead protecting the world!
Finkmom: Protecting our apartment, anyway. But, Gussie, I don't see how you could have flown all the way to Pakistan and back overnight.
Finknottle: BE QUIET! That's classified! But is has to do with the space shuttle, a jet pack and a very large jar of Vaseline! I'd tell you more, but then I'd have to bite you!
Finkmom: Well, I'm glad you made it home safely, Sweetness. Do you wanna lay in my lap and have a nice snuggle?
Finknottle: Yes, and could you please rub my ewars?
Finkmom: Sure, Rambo.
April 29th 2011 7:44 pm
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Now I know why puggles have mushed noses.
Finkmom took me to the dog park Saturday, and the puggle boy was the only other dog in the small-dog park.
And from the minute I walked in, he had his nose shoved so far up my vent, I could feel his breath on my tonsils! No doubt, he wrinkled his nose from pushing it against the arses of other girl dogs!
He was obsessed with my arse! I mean OBSESSED!
So, I am no longer worried that my snaggle-toofed mouf will be a turn-off for the boy doggies.
The Fink Stink will lure them in every time!
(And, in case you are wondering, yes, I finally did bitch bark at him. I had no choice! When I tried to walk, we looked like a train that was attached bunghole-to-nose! Brazen little perv!)
April 13th 2011 5:44 pm
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I am already back in arse-biting form, snaggle-teef and all! I did great at the vet. My mudder got a bad headache today, though, so I will post more later. Fanks for all the support!
April 7th 2011 4:46 pm
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Finkmom is getting a little sentimental, partly because she is worried about my dental procedure next week, and partly because she gets soppy when she thinks about me (who can blame her? I am wonderously wonderful, after all!)
I have a reputation for being the kind of furrrroshus beeyatch who bites arses and takes names. It’s true!
But I also have a sweet side.
Don’t tell anydog. Or I will kick your rump ‘til your vent touches your tonsils!
But I am really sweet. And she insists that I let her write a little bit about my sweet side. So, since she frequently spoons me and feeds me chicken (but she doesn’t spoon feed me chicken, dangit), I’ve decided to indulge her and agreed to publish a few of my fuzzier qualities.
When my mudder gets home from anywhere, she sits on the bottom step to pet me, and I rub myself all under and around her legs like a (shudder!) CAT! And what she really thinks is sweet is that I sometimes give her tiny little kisses on her hands. She thinks the tiny little kisses are special.
Sometimes, when I’m sitting on her lap and we both are facing the same direction, I suddenly rare my head back until it is almost upside down just so I can look at her adoringly. Then I kiss her chin.
When she gets home and feeds me, she then goes upstairs to change clothes while I’m eating. But sometimes I want to see her so badly, I grab a mouthful of kibble, carry it upstairs, drop it in the floor and then eat it there so I can be in the same room with her.
Sometimes I like to “nuss” her, as we call it, by putting my paws on her upper chest and vigorously licking her forehead like she’s my puppy and I’m cleaning her (actually, I’m pretending her forehead is a puppy’s bucket and I’m licking it to make it poop, but we won’t tell her about that.) It’s like I’m taking care of her!
Well, these are just a few of the wonderful things about me. I’d rather write about my wonderous mightiness, but I guess just this once I will let her let everydog know I’m a sweetie pie. (An arse-kicking sweetie pie!)
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