Dognapping Averted!!!

(Dear loyal readers. Though I wrote this last week, Main Mistress needed her laptop so I couldn't finish it at the time. Still, I think the post is timeless, so read on...)
Here we are in the arms of Junior Mistress, our savior.

See how happy we are?????!!!!

The reason we are happy is because we love her AND because she is a superhero who saved my sister and wife Nala from dognapping today at the sketchy dog-run in Morningside Heights.

What happened was this: Junior Mistress got us all dressed and out for an early morning shpatzir* down W116th Street, past Doody Row (Morningside Drive) and down the concrete steps towards the  Pitbull-infested dog run inside the park.

No sooner was I running around like a happy little missile than I saw Junior Mistress stride with fearful purpose towards a marginal character: a fiftyish single lady with long salt 'n pepper hair.

The character had Nala in her arms.

"Excuse me! Excuse me!" yelled Junior Mistress, voice shaking. "Put my dog down! Why are you picking up my dog?"

Yeah!!! I thought, trotting up behind Junior Mistress, baring my scary Pomeranian teeth (or at least the remaining ones) and acting all alpha. Put down Nala, biyatch!!!!

Oh no, Nala communicated to me once she stopped batting her eyes at the stranger. I guess I have to be more careful who I wag my tail at??

Sometimes, Nala, you are a slut for human attention, I shot back at her.

Sorry, she said in a small voice, beginning to wriggle vigorously out of the interloper's arms.

It was clear to me, a Pomeranian without a college education (or any education, for that matter) that the woman was either:

a: deranged
b: high
c: drunk
d: psychotic
e: a dognapper
f: all the above

"Oh, okay. Sorry!!!" she said, placing Nala down on the ground, chuckling nervously.

Junior Mistress was breathing heavily. Glaring at the stranger, yanking on our leashes, she marched out of the dog run and homeward. With Junior Mistress distracted by her anger, it was safe to speak in Pomeranian.

"You dummy! I spat at Nala as we trotted back to our urban doghouse. "We could have been there for at least half an hour. Junior Mistress was going to call her BF and you know how long those conversations are!!! It would have been so awesome if you hadn't flirted with that wackadoodle!"

"Okay, okay!" Nala sighed. "You're right, Alfie. I have to have better judgement. She said she had a treat for me!"

"Omigod!!! Sometimes you are such a dope!" What was with my sister/wife????? "Do I have to explain everything to you????That is the oldest trick in the dognapper's bag!"

Nala looked crushed. "You mean there was no treat??"

So, today I learned that Junior Mistress is our true hero and savior and that Nala is a complete idiot.

Then again, probably all big brothers think that of their little sisters from time to time.

Barks 'n lick,

Alfie the Pomeranian
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*walk, in Yiddish

People Think It's Really Funny

So, until I saw this YouTube video, I thought I was the only dog afflicted with (whisper) diarrhea.

Now I know I am not alone.

And now maybe I can come out from under the couch where I've been hiding since Main Mistress vigorously scrubbed my butt in the bathtub while saying all kinds of not-nice things about me and Main Master Swiffered the apartment floors for about the tenth time since Friday afternoon while shouting not-nice names at me.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

I think it was the Ol' Roy's or maybe that horrible Pedigree stuff you guys picked up at Duane Reade.

Speaking of Duane Reade, maybe find me some doggy diarrhea medicine???

I wish I was more like Alfie. He's been laughing his tail off throughout this entire episode. In fact, he has been barking The Diarrhea Song to me for the past hour. I fail to find the humor in this, but maybe you will.

Yours in humiliation,

Nala

Let's be Clear: Humans are the Real Animals

I cannot watch the news anymore.

Israeli tourists targeted by a terrorist in Bulgaria. Gun violence against movie-goers in Colorado. Ongoing civilian massacres in Syria.

Main Mistress cried last night when she read the biographies of the Israeli victims of the suicide bomber and again, this morning, when she watched footage of the shooting in Aurora, Colorado this morning.

She told me that both incidents were motivated by something called HATE.

I don't know what that is so I asked her to explain it to me.

She said it was the opposite of LOVE.

I'm not sure I understand what she means. For me, the opposite of LOVE is dislike.

For instance, I LOVE food but dislike going to the doctor.

Is that what she means?

When I was a puppy, I thought that humans were just like us, except bald and with fewer legs.

I am getting the message that they might not be like us at all.

They can feel this thing called HATE which blows up buses and shoots up movie theaters and hacks people to bits in the street in front of their loved ones.

So don't call us animals.

Shabbat Shalom,

Nala

16 (Love) Handles

One of the endearing yet laughable qualities of Main Mistress is that she avoids trends like the plague.  When Bridget Jones's Diary came out, she refused to read it for about two years because she was convinced she would hate it based on the numbers of people who loved it. Years earlier, she went through the same charade with Wally Lamb's She's Come Undone. And there have been innumerable instances of Main Mistress shunning a slamming product just because it is popular.

Therefore, when 16 Handles shops began sprouting up on Manhattan streets like Starbuckses, Main Mistress snorted loudly, rolled her eyes and strutted in the opposite direction, nose held high.

As it turns out, there is a 16 Handles directly across from her favorite hangout, the JCC in Manhattan, located -- in fact -- just behind the bus stop for Main Mistress's favorite bus line, the one that zips down Columbus and back up Amsterdam...the M11.

Day and night, winter, spring, summer and fall, throngs of people fill this shop. Every pink and orange chair in front of the shop is occupied at all hours. The business seems to be a real draw with the yarmulke crowd as the yogurt and toppings are certified kosher. Junior Mistress, a vegan, is a fan and frequently talks about how great 16 Handles is. "They have amazing dairy-free yogurt!" she has exulted.

Until last night, Main Mistress would simply sashay past the store but faced with the insane humidity of Bryant Park for the two hours she and Main Master spent waiting for the free showing of Roman Holiday to begin, there was no alternative.

Leaving their table on the side of the dangerously overcrowded Bryant Park lawn, where they had enjoyed a take-out dinner courtesy of The Hummus Place as well as white wine they had to surreptitiously sip (no booze allowed in the park), they headed for the Times Square subway station, sweat trickling down their backs, hair plastered to their foreheads and necks. At Main Mistresses's advice, they had parked their Honda on Columbus and 75th Street, having used the car previously to drive to the post office on 125th Street to pick up a package.

The original plan was to hop on an express, taking it one stop uptown but the platform of the uptown 1, 2 and 3 trains was easily 200 degrees. When a local train arrived first, they dove inside. On the train, Main Master looked like he was going to faint, while Main Mistress, happily plastered from two glasses of wine, hardly noticed that her hair had frizzed to Pomeranian-like dimensions. Arriving at the W72nd Street station, she realized that Main Master needed emergency care.

"Screme? 16 Handles?"she asked, as they walked past the Screme Gelato kiosk in Verdi Square, which was mobbed by humans who looked like they needed CPR.

But Main Master was too far gone to even respond.  Main Mistress took him by the hand and considered the best course of action. That course led them to the pink and orange shop on the corner of 75th and Amsterdam.

It was the right decision. Eyes growing big like frisbees, Main Master grabbed a cup and practically ran to the line of yogurt dispensers. The simple act of filling his cup with frozen yogurt acted like a shot of adrenaline. Soon, Main Master was skipping down the line of yogurt handles, giggling, like a kid at the Viennese table of a Bar Mitzvah. Ever cynical, Main Mistress scoped out the sample cups. Yes, there were oodles of flavors but before she committed, she wanted to know what the fuss was about.

While Main Master happily piled lychee nuts and walnuts atop his swirls of vanilla and blueberry yogurt, Main Mistress warily checked out the Coconut Custard Pie, the Praline and the Birthday Cake flavors.

The good news, as she told me later, is that 16 Handles is as delicious as Wally's soft-serve ice cream in Monroe and ostensibly healthier. A poster promoting the healthful benefits of probiotics assured her of this fact.

Sated from her sampling, Main Mistress made a mental note to commit to an actual cup of the stuff next time (that is, pay for the goods), topped, perhaps, with mini cheesecake cubes, slivered almonds and toasted coconut.

It sounds like a solid plan except for one detail.

How could she fail to notice that Nala and I have been dying in this heat!! Main Master is not the only one wilting on the street! What about her pooches?? Has she not noticed that we are saddled with these heavy fur coats??? Has she not heard our desperate panting??? Does she think we have internal air conditioning???

In the heat of a Manhattan summer, frozen treats are a dog's best friend. Hey Main Mistress!!! Next time, share a few of those 16 Handles with us!!!!!

Barks 'n lick,

Alfie

The End of Ol' Roy

Who doesn't love a bargain?

Main Mistress is certainly no exception. Therefore, when she stumbled upon the Ol' Roy brand of dog food last week at Walmart, she thought she had discovered dog food Nirvana.

A bit of background. Three years ago, after seeing the Reverend Billy movie, What Would Jesus Buy? Main Mistress swore off Walmart, which the movie revealed as one of the worst and exploitative American companies in the world. And she kept to her word...until Shabbat ended too late to see a movie and she and Main Master were stuck in the bungalow before the wireless network was hooked up and they were bored, etc, etc...

So she suggested heading over to Walmart to shop for a cheap DVD amid the hordes of Hasidim and townies. Doing Walmart on a Saturday night is a local tradition in the town of Monroe and probably every other godforsaken place in America.

I'm not sure how she came to that decision. Either Main Mistress is flexible or a complete hypocrite. I'm not sure. I'll ask Nala what she thinks.

Walking from the entertainment section holding onto a $5 DVD (Pineapple Express), they found themselves in the pet food aisle. That's where they saw the Ol' Roy brand, which is basically a total rip-off of the Cesar's package. Instead of a Westie, there is a Yorkie on the top. The color scheme is also the same. Main Mistress laughed raucously at first but the price looked right. At 60 cents a piece, Ol' Roy was 12 cents cheaper than Target's 72 cents per tub of the Cesar's dog food we also love.

"Let's get some!!!" she told Main Master. "How bad can it be??"

In truth, Nala and I thought that Ol' Roy was rather tasty...in a junky way. It was unlike anything we had ever tasted, even better than those smoked turkey slices we once stole off a deli platter. We tucked into the Ol' Roy with unusual gusto. Nala even stole my tub from me and I had to nip at her tail to get it back.

Our eagerness triggered Main Mistress's suspicions. This morning, she went online to investigate the nutritional content.

"I knew it!!!" she shouted, finding that it garnered a one-star rating from Dogfoodadvisor.

"Crap!!!" we said in unison. "The party's over!"

I just heard the jingle of keys. I think Main Mistress is on her way to Whole Foods or some other den of boring wholesomeness to upgrade our diet. Before she gets back, I'm going try to bury the remaining tubs where she cannot find them. Maybe underneath Main Master's dirty shirts at the bottom of his closet.

Mwwwaaaahaaahaaaa.

Yours truly,

Alfie

The Book of Job

Hi! It's Nala!!!

Alfie was under the weather yesterday, which drove him literally under the bed in Main Master and Mistress's bungalow bedroom.

Poor Alfie! He wouldn't eat. He wouldn't drink. He wouldn't bark. He wouldn't pee. He wouldn't move.

Of course, I worried about him.

"Hey, Alf??" I asked him in the morning when he failed to bound out of the screened porch of the bungalow in celebration of the gift of one more country morning. "What's going on, bro?"

But he couldn't even answer. He just stared at me with baleful eyes.

Suddenly, I had an idea.

"Wait a minute," I said, the wheels turning quickly in my mind. "Were you eavesdropping on the conversation that Main Master and Mistress had yesterday on The Book of Job with that weird pack of humans they call their 'havurah?' You know, where they were talking about whether God's answer out of the whirlwind was a satisfactory response to Job who had suffered with no apparent cause, other than being a pawn in a power struggle between God and The Adversary, sometimes mistakenly referred to as Satan in English because of the Hebrew Sa-Tan."

Alfie covered his head with his paws. I knew it! He was not sick, but in a state of existential despair.

Doggone it! With so many upbeat books to discuss -- "50 Shades of Grey" is my favorite -- I just don't get why the humans think it is a good idea to ponder the puzzle of theodicy on a sunny summer day. I mean, I like Kafka and all and can even get into Sartre when the mood strikes me, but when you start delving into the conundrum of a just God in a world with evil and suffering, that is a bit too much for a Pomeranian to bear.

Fortunately, the gloom started to lift late last night. Maybe it was because Alfie peed on Main Master's copy of Robert Alter's "The Wisdom Books," offering his own commentary on the futility of seeking meaning in a meaningless world.

Whatever the cause, Alfie is back to his playful, happy self, cavorting in the sunny lawn outside of the bungalow while Main Mistress labors away on her laptop.

For next week, I will insist that the humans have a more uplifting discussion.

xxxooo,

Nala

Back from the Beauty Parlor

We're free!!! We're freeeeeee!!! And freedom tastes of reality!!!

Here I am, with Nala, outside of Snowball's Pet Salon, on Columbus Avenue. Note the smiles on our faces. You have never seen more joyous dogs in your life.

Main Master sneakily walked us to Snowball's this morning for our 9 a.m. torture grooming session. As we approached the store, I caught onto his devious plan and launched into an impassioned protest. It was Occupy Pet Salon time. I sat down. I growled. I looked surly. I lowered my ears and affected a pitiful look. Then I bared my teeth and looked fierce.

Hell no, I wouldn't go.

While I tried to communicate my plan to Nala, she didn't catch on, seduced as she was by the idea of a wash and blowout. "Omigod! I'm going to look so awesome afterwards!!!! And I'm going to smell good, too!!!! I love the doggie spa!"

"Hey," I tried to warn her. "They do terrible things to puppies in there! Don't be fooled. Grooming is for the owners, not the dogs! It's to make them look good! We always look good, even when we're matted!"

But Nala was too busy flirting with a passing crack addict and his Doberman.

Main Master lifted me up and carried me inside while Nala trotted in for her beauty appointment. I glared at her and hated all of humanity.

"Don't go!!!" I barked to Main Master, but he was gone in a flash.

Strapped to the horrible slab, browbeaten into submission, I overheard my groomer talking about us to another groomer.

"F@#$ that matted fur!" she said. "No f&(*ing way I'm gonna brush it through! F$%&ing incompetent pet owners!!"

And then she reached for the power tools.

Afterwards, we waited in humiliating cages while Main Master took his sweeeet time retrieving us.

"How do you like my new haircut?" asked Nala, preening. "Don't you think it makes my butt look smaller???"

Nala is beautiful but she is truly the fattest dog I have ever seen. Rather than insult her, I turned away and stared at the wall with glum silence.

Half an hour later, we were sprung from the prison that is a Pet Salon and now I'm lounging on the couch, drowning my sorrow in a cool bowl of NYC tap water. Yeah, my fur looks pretty great but what an ordeal!

Meanwhile, Nala is strutting in front of the mirror in Junior Mistress's room, checking out her new coif from all directions.

"Hey!" she keeps saying, to anyone who will listen. "I think this new hairstyle really does make my butt look smaller!"