You said we wuz visiting friends!

A "nice ride" turned into another trip to the vet yesterday morning. This old dog is starting to have reservations about getting into cars with humans, especially when they tell you that you're going to visit friends. This time I got jabbed in the back of the neck with a needle that I'm just as glad I didn't see--though I should have suspected the worst when they strapped a big leather muzzle on me and started running on about what a good dog I am. That needle must have been a real doozy, too, cuz M said it contained a microchip  that's now lodged somewhere between my shoulder blades. (Don't be fooled by the "micro" part--it felt as big as a cow chip! Ouch!!)

On the way home I asked M what a microchip is, and he said it's an electronic gizmo that contains information to help people find me if I ever get lost. I said heck, I could have just promised not to get lost and saved him the expense. All he had to do was ask me not to--get lost, that is. But he said getting lost or not getting lost doesn't work that way, since the former is always done by accident.

Later we actually did get to visit some friends, a hound named Daisy and her person, a nice lady named Libby. But we didn't have to drive there, since they live a couple of houses down the street. Daisy's pretty cute and I like her even though she's at least twice my age. Libby says that makes her a cougar, but she still looks like a regular hound to me. I was glad to get to go over to her house. I'm afraid I wasn't at my socializing best, though, because of the lingering stress from being stabbed a few hours before.

We went through Daisy's house and out into the back yard and weren't there five minutes when M and J started grousing at me for whizzing on a coupla dozen bushes and a potted magnolia tree and then taking a big dump out by the fence. Libby said it was okay to leave it there. But noooo--M had to go bag it up and then stand around holding it for the entire rest of the party, complaining the whole time about the smell. (What'd he expect--Chanel Number 2?)

They tried to get me and Daisy to chase some weird looking toy, but we didn't feel much like it, as it was about 98 degrees in the shade. So most of the festivities just involved standing around the water bowl watching M and J and L sweat and listening to them make small talk. At some point Daisy found a patch of bare dirt and started scratching around in it. Then she left it, so I went over and dug it out a little more and then lay down in it. It felt good--nice and cool.

As you might imagine, the paparazzi were out in full force. Okay, that's hyperbole. M took his camera and snapped a few pictures. Here's one of me and ol' Daisy having some water:

Laissez les bons temps rouller!

The only stupid questions are those that aren't asked.

I learn a lot from Mike, especially when we go on our walks. He's usually pretty good about answering my questions. But sometimes if he has a lot on his mind, he tells me that I ask too many and could I please stick a sock in it. This morning's Baby Blues comic strip sort of reminded me of that situation:

By the way, I don't have to ask M that particular question, since I already know what "E.D." means. It stands for "Educating Dogs"--and unless you dislike them, it's not something you "suffer from." It's something you "Enjoy Doing."

Pappy . . . Is that you?

I was browsing through dog books on Amazon a while ago and found something downright spooky. For a second I could have sworn I was looking into a magic mirror at myself a hundred years from now. Then I thought maybe it was a picture of my granddaddy, though I never met him. In any case, check this out:

An amazing future likeness to yours truly, don't you think? (M says it also reminds him of an old TV newsman named Walter Cronkite.) The book looks interesting, too, and has a lot of great reviews.

As for its author, Gene Weingarten, M says he's a guy who writes funny stuff for a big city newspaper called The Washington Post. He also writes serious pieces that win him major awards called "Pullet Surprises." I wonder if those involve chickens? I like surprises as long as they aren't scary, which poultry certainly aren't, except for large geese.

M also says that Mr. Weingarten has told his family that when he dies he wants to be buried in Washington's Congressional Cemetery, because they let dogs run free there, and that he wants his tombstone to have only his birth and death dates and to say: "A funny man who loved dogs." Oh, and he wants the stone to be shaped like a fire hydrant!

It didn't surprise me to learn that Mr. Weingarten adopted his own dog, Murphy, from an animal rescue shelter after she'd been abandoned in the woods. Boy, can I relate to that! (Except that I got to skip the shelter part.)

I told M that Mr. Weingarten sounds like my kind of human. And M said, "What's not to like about a guy whose Twitter avatar is a big, steamy pile of dog poop?" I thought, you have got to be kidding, M, but I Googled "Gene Weingarten" and "Twitter" and he's absolutely right. Soft-serve, anyone?

Mr. W, sir, you crack me up!

What the finance?

I'll bet this is what Mike's classroom would have looked like if everyone in it was a dog:

Insurance imitates art.

If you've read my post from yesterday, you know that M isn't exactly the insurance industry's biggest fan. How ironic, then, that I should find this poster in a stash of his souvenirs: a 1991 ad for the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company!

M says it's no big deal and not at all out of character for him to have wanted one for his collection. "It's a clever piece of advertising. You don't need to endorse the product or the company to see that."

I have to agree. "You're right--very simple and direct."

"Exactly."

"And you know I always like it when famous paintings cross over into the cartoonist's bailiwick."

"That's true, especially when there are dogs involved." He reminds me of my post last month about the painting of the ones sitting around playing poker.

"And notice the slogan down there at the bottom," I say.

"What about it?"

"Everything's so understated. 'GET MET." They could have said 'GET METROPOLITAN LIFE INSURANCE,' but instead it's just 'GET MET.' Pure elegance!"

"Yeah," he says. "Much more effective that way. Poetic, even."

"And the other part," I continue. "'IT PAYS.' Not the much more tiresome if perhaps more truthful 'IT PAYS UNLESS WE CAN THINK OF SOME WAY TO GET OUT OF IT.' That would have been way too wordy, don't you think?"

"Let it go, dog!" he says. "Don't make me regret baring my soul to you."

"L-M-A-O!" I reply.