Today On The Drawing Board ...

I had a phone conversation with my friend Richie ... he was complaining about all the yard work and house upkeep he had to do. Every weekend, his wife ... Beth ... had a list of chores he was expected to squeeze into the two days ... rain or shine ... sweltering heat or frigid cold.
One of Richie's least favorite jobs was "poop patrol," the cleaning up of all the excrement left by their beagle Higgins. "That's what I thought we had kids for," Richie explained, "you know, to grow up and do all the things around the house we hate to do."

I was considering this conversation while consuming a Bomb Pop ... those bright, icy, and oddly-ridged red, white, and blue treats ... when I had an idea for the ultimate invention. Dog Turd Dye ... DTD!!

DTD would be a tasteless and odorless additive to wet dog food. It would come in a small bottle kept in the refrigerator. When canine dinner time rolls around, a dropper full of DTD is added to your pet's food. And for approximately 48 hours, every ass nugget that leaves your dog will be tennis ball yellow, horror movie ooze green, or construction cone orange. Locating and removing these biological messes from your yards will be a breeze! I would become a household name and bazillionaire in one easy stroke!!

Then, like a rational person, I began to think about logistics. How do you meet a fun-lovong chemist? Caribou Coffee? And what about safety issues? I know that, in humans, food additives like colorings and dyes have been tentatively linked to serious health concerns such as liver damage, asthma, and cancer. And in children, studies conducted with tartrazine, more commonly known as FDC yellow #5 ... there goes my tennis ball yellow option ... have shown connections with hives, hyperactivity, and a lack of focus and concentration. Animal testing has been done on lots of rats with varying results. I guess dogs would have to be studied to, but I think it has potential.

I'm still gonna call Richie and give him the good news!!

POINT OF RANT: Do dogs really need to concentrate?

Today At The Dog Park ...

I have this friend named Trevor. Trevor, to start, was a friend of a friend's roommate. Likeable on first glance, Trevor proved to be a constant source of amusement and adventure, and became a first-level friend. Trevor taught me how to sled on cafeteria trays. Trevor helped me cram for art history finals. Trevor helped my back to campus after consuming 29 gin and tonics at "10 Cent Well Drinks Night." And it was Trevor who talked me out of making a serious commitment to a girl who I thought was extremely proper - I later found out her nickname was "Rugburn."

Trevor was also the definition of "open." At keggers, it was a 50/50 proposition if he would be leaving with an inebriated sorority girl or drunk-on-his-ass frat dude. Trevor was heteroflexible and we never really discussed the issue, he was just being Trevor. But when Trevor recently breezed through the area on a business trip and asked if I wanted to see a place where "the sex and cruising was wild," I hesitated, weighing his crazy past with the excitement of reconnecting for a few hours. I agreed to be ready in an hour.

The Ohio springtime weather was bewitching as I waited outside. I was dressed casually but smart, nice chinos and a newish dress shirt. I wanted to look like an adult, but not too old. Surprisingly on time, Trevor pulled up with Sheba, his terrier/doberman/spawn of Satan mix. It seems we were going to the dog park to watch Sheba frolick with complete canine strangers.

I, of course, was overdressed for the outing, but Trevor just thought the whole thing was funny. So did Sheba, who in her excitement whizzed a strip down my left pant leg as she shared steering duties with Trevor.

After a 20 minute ride, we arrived at the park. About an eighth-of-a-mile square, the park was busy with two- and four-legged patrons. There were maybe seven other cars in the small parking lot. A variety of humans and dogs milled about, with the animals inside a fence with two volunteer "monitors" that worked each afternoon. I counted about 12 dogs so some people brought more than one beast to play.

The park itself was a mix of flat and wooded areas, littered with every type of ball and chew toy imaginable. Comfortable-looking benches sat close to the running area so that people could relax but staty close to their pets (most people stayed inside the fence with their animals). Everything seemed very well maintained.

Trevor quickly put Sheba on her retractable leash and went over to a bin that housed spare dog bowls and borrowed one. He filled it with water from a nearby spigot and motioned me over to a bench. "Watch this while I get her started," he instructed me and then towed Sheba (she fought the leash the whole way) over to the entrance gate.

As I sat, I glanced over a clearly painted set of rules for using the dog park. Most of it was common sense, but I also thought it was a very responsible move. No roughhousing, no leaving your dog unattended, no food inside the fence, a suggestion to use tha holding area just inside the gate to see how your animal was reacting to being so close to others, and, most importantly, immediate leashing and removal of your dog from the premises if he or she acted up. There was also a standard disclaimor about the city/county/parks department having no responsibility for your do or dog's actions ... legalspeak for you can't sue us if something happens.

Manners ... expectations ... nice looking facility ... what could go wrong? I'm sure the organizers of the Super Bowl, Carnivale, Mardi Gras, Gay Pride, and New Year's Eve in Times Square have the same delusions. It seemed like all I did was blink and the scene went from quaint and serene to lude and lawless. The two "volunteers," obviously individuals who liked dogs but didn't get to spend a lot of time with people, focused on talking up all the owners and didn't once glance at the dogs. The people on the benches who weren't deep in conversation with the helpers (Trevor was telling them both one story or another) had their noses in books or seemed to be deciding the fate of the world via cellphones. And the dogs, oh the dogs ... the growling and the chasing and the yapping and the teasing and the nipping and the chasing and the butt-sniffing and the attempted mounting ... it was out of control. I looked for cameras, first to corroborate what I was witnessing and then to record it for the reality series that was obviously taking place. Seriously, I looked for a studio audience and all the "grips" and "gaffers" and "best boys" because this couldn't be happening for real. And if it was a tv show or movie, then Sheba was a lead actor. She had latched on to a female beagle about her size and was hurriedly humping hindquarters to beat the band.

It was like seeing a car accident ... wanting to look away but unable to look away ... for several minutes before Trevor plopped down beside me, nudged me in the ribs playfully, and snickered, "Did I tell ya? Did I tell ya?"

He had told me. And Trevor, after all, is a man of his word.

POINT OF RANT: Think carefully before going places with Trevor.

Today At My Boss' House ...

Now I bet none of you (I hope) have ever been in this situation: you and five co-workers are in the den of your boss' home for a planning retreat, you all are wearing casual clothes while you toss around project ideas and budget concerns for the next six months, and your boss' horse-sized Great Dane is, for all intents and purposes, performing oral sex on you.

When we arrived at Lady Boss' house in a caravan of four cars, it was 9:30 a.m. The morning was crisp with snow flurries dancing about. As the group exited the vehicles, we were greeted by a vague shape coming out of the snow from the side yard of a lovely Victorian home. The wintery mirage took on more definition and I just assumed a horse had gotten loose from the nearby barn. No, it was Barney, a male Great Dane of pony proportions.

Our boss shouted hello and the assemblage was quickly ushered into the house, asked to remove our shoes, and led into a cozy room with fireplace ablaze. After coffee and sodas were passed around, the small group set to work. One co-worker set up an idea easel. Others took out notebooks or scratchpaper. Barney focused on working my crotch.

I don't care for dogs. They're noisy, bothersome, and needy ... at least the one's I've met. But this one was making me "feel funny" with its snorts and aggressive snout-work. And the scene was causing my co-workers to giggle at my expense. And the boss didn't bat and eye.

Now Lady Boss loves her Barney, dotes on him even more than her two children. She family photos on her desk at work that prominently feature the brute. She often tells "hilarious" tales of Barney and his misadventures. But today, we're in Barney's world and he seems to make the rules.

After a bit, she makes excuses for his geisha-esque manners like "he's just getting acquainted" (to which I think "do I leave $20 on the dresser when he's finished"), or she suggests "just push him away" (to which I whisper to one co-worker "like I haven't been doing that since I sat down"). But the foreplay continued.

Here's my big question ... or complaint ... shouldn't my boss be taking the lead in stopping her pet's fellatiating actions? Is it really my responsibility, as a guest in her home, to curb the crotch sniffing beast?

And the day went on. Barney did "head" off and get into something else, but that something else was a female co-worker's purse from which he tried to eat a lipstick. Then the lummox knocked over a Pepsi. And I can't decently describe the amount of drool that damn dog produced. Those slimy jowls spewed on chair arms, pant legs, and swatches of carpet. The room we were in definitely had a lived-in look, but I never would have expected canine saliva to be the biggest decorating accent.

We weren't released from "Great Dane Does Dallas" until shortly after 2 p.m. There were other advances on my crotch, a few more spilling incidents, and a number of "surprise appearances" by Barney's bared-for-the-world-to-see weiner. The only respite was that Barney was put in another room for about 30 minutes during lunch. And then only because he kept trying to pull the boss' plate off of the table.

I had driven separately. I wanted so badly to be home ... to take a shower ... to visit a therapist ... to adopt a cat.

POINT OF RANT: Dogs are not people ... learn to live with it!!