Woody
05-11-2005, 08:52 AM
LIFE WITH NEWMAN – WHAT WOULD I MISS?
There is no question that I love owning a dog. There is something about being welcomed home by a body-wiggling, euphoric canine who simply cannot BELIEVE that you walk through the door every day at precisely the same time. I suppose I shouldn't take this as gospel that I am a stupendous individual because I get the same reaction if I step out into the garage for 15 seconds to throw our pop cans into the recycle box. Newman is a dedicated companion and our life has been enriched since welcoming him into our home two years ago. However, there are certain traits and idiosyncrasies of our beloved pup that, similar to the cancellation of A Simple Life, I would not miss.
I would not miss Newman helping me "prepare" for a soothing and luxurious bath in our Jacuzzi tub. In our new home, we do not have a door into our ensuite bathroom, we have an archway, so I effectively gave up any remaining privacy I once had. Newman learned the hard way that the tap is not like the tap in the backyard, which dispenses cold water and I subsequently had to relieve his scorched tongue with a stick of butter. While I realize it is completely innocent to strip down in front of your pet, I can't help but think that those eyes are as judgemental as Simon Cowell. I always feel compelled to undress in the closet and re-materialize in a towel, which is ludicrous, considering that Newman's only concern would be that there are no pockets in which to hold treats. Once in the tub, I am bothered by a dog who thinks that bubbles are cotton candy, a loofah is a potato and a pumice stone is a block of Gouda. I'm trying to exfoliate my parched skin and he's trying to have lunch. After I rub ointment on his nose for getting too close to the eucalyptus candle, I yell at him to bring back my People magazine before he chews off Brad Pitt's head. I stay in the tub long enough to become as wrinkled as Joan River's face if it had not been stretched like a snare drum, and then play tug-of-war with Newman and my terrycloth head turban. I later contemplate why so many women find this ritual "a relaxing escape from the harsh realities of the world".
I would not miss Newman's somnambular antics at 3:00 o'clock in the morning. Occasionally when he is given bed privileges, Newman sleeps right between Dave and me, and he MUST be dreaming about being a Coon Hound because he will start to bay like it was the beginning of the lunar cycle. Meanwhile, I've bolted awake because I think there's a fire truck in the driveway. If he's not howling at the moon in his sleep, then he's running the Boston Marathon and my backside is the tarmac. I sometimes ponder whether Newman is drying out like an alcoholic because he twitches and trembles like he needs a shot of whiskey. And other times, I think he's dreaming about Emma, the yellow lab across the street, because while he is in a deep REM slumber, all of a sudden his tail will start to wag and fan me like a palm leaf.
I would not miss his bodily emissions. I understand that it is a scientific and natural function that we all have to execute, however, Newman's output could make the eyes water on a statue. And it's not just what emanates from the "bad" end; his snout is a deadly projectile as well. And I think it is a detriment to us all that we cannot predict a canine sneeze. One minute you're nose-to-nose with your best friend on the floor, sharing a moment of genuine love and ear-scratching and the next you're covered in a splash of gelatinous snot that clings to you like corn syrup. The double whammy is when Newman is eating his dinner and produces a sneeze that refurbishes my kitchen walls with an abstract kibble stucco. Burping is also a lovely by-product of consuming his meal and can usually be heard during the dead silence of saying grace at Thanksgiving. Different variations and consistencies of throw-up could be discussed here, but I think my point has been made. And while I know you fellow dog owners can empathize with the above, I strongly advise against broaching this subject at formal dinner parties.
I would not miss the Newman/Wally Civil War, which has been waging now for two years with, thankfully, no casualties. Well, no physical casualties, although I think Newman's self-esteem has been beaten into a Woody Allen-type angst. Newman just cannot grasp why Wally loathes him strictly on the basis of his existence. Much like my sentiments towards Donald Trump's barber. And Newman has been very sympathetic towards the Fat Cat since his diagnosis with diabetes. The area between Wally's shoulder blades has been shaved so that I can administer the needles easily and Newman takes great care in licking this peculiar bald spot. Wally interprets this as a soggy assault on his epidermis and proceeds to carve his initials in Newman's nose.
I would not miss the seasonal upkeep on that very active, clumsy lab. In the spring, I have to hose him down because of the ground and snow thawing, leaving Newman to look like Pig Pen. In the summer, I have to bathe him weekly because he swims in the Bow River and smells like a duet of trout and algae. In the fall, I use the leaf-blower on him because he rolls in the fallen, dehydrated remnants of anything that was once in a tree. And in the winter, I have to pick the ice out from between the pads of his feet with my eyebrow tweezers. Newman is like the ever-rotating departments at Canadian Tire.
So, if I were to eliminate these canine eccentricities from my life, my day-to-day existence would be quiet, calm, peaceful, dirt-free and orderly. And what would I miss? Well, that's easy. Newman.
Dee Clair
Calgary, Alberta
This column is lovingly dedicated to Katie Blake, whose parents miss her every day.
There is no question that I love owning a dog. There is something about being welcomed home by a body-wiggling, euphoric canine who simply cannot BELIEVE that you walk through the door every day at precisely the same time. I suppose I shouldn't take this as gospel that I am a stupendous individual because I get the same reaction if I step out into the garage for 15 seconds to throw our pop cans into the recycle box. Newman is a dedicated companion and our life has been enriched since welcoming him into our home two years ago. However, there are certain traits and idiosyncrasies of our beloved pup that, similar to the cancellation of A Simple Life, I would not miss.
I would not miss Newman helping me "prepare" for a soothing and luxurious bath in our Jacuzzi tub. In our new home, we do not have a door into our ensuite bathroom, we have an archway, so I effectively gave up any remaining privacy I once had. Newman learned the hard way that the tap is not like the tap in the backyard, which dispenses cold water and I subsequently had to relieve his scorched tongue with a stick of butter. While I realize it is completely innocent to strip down in front of your pet, I can't help but think that those eyes are as judgemental as Simon Cowell. I always feel compelled to undress in the closet and re-materialize in a towel, which is ludicrous, considering that Newman's only concern would be that there are no pockets in which to hold treats. Once in the tub, I am bothered by a dog who thinks that bubbles are cotton candy, a loofah is a potato and a pumice stone is a block of Gouda. I'm trying to exfoliate my parched skin and he's trying to have lunch. After I rub ointment on his nose for getting too close to the eucalyptus candle, I yell at him to bring back my People magazine before he chews off Brad Pitt's head. I stay in the tub long enough to become as wrinkled as Joan River's face if it had not been stretched like a snare drum, and then play tug-of-war with Newman and my terrycloth head turban. I later contemplate why so many women find this ritual "a relaxing escape from the harsh realities of the world".
I would not miss Newman's somnambular antics at 3:00 o'clock in the morning. Occasionally when he is given bed privileges, Newman sleeps right between Dave and me, and he MUST be dreaming about being a Coon Hound because he will start to bay like it was the beginning of the lunar cycle. Meanwhile, I've bolted awake because I think there's a fire truck in the driveway. If he's not howling at the moon in his sleep, then he's running the Boston Marathon and my backside is the tarmac. I sometimes ponder whether Newman is drying out like an alcoholic because he twitches and trembles like he needs a shot of whiskey. And other times, I think he's dreaming about Emma, the yellow lab across the street, because while he is in a deep REM slumber, all of a sudden his tail will start to wag and fan me like a palm leaf.
I would not miss his bodily emissions. I understand that it is a scientific and natural function that we all have to execute, however, Newman's output could make the eyes water on a statue. And it's not just what emanates from the "bad" end; his snout is a deadly projectile as well. And I think it is a detriment to us all that we cannot predict a canine sneeze. One minute you're nose-to-nose with your best friend on the floor, sharing a moment of genuine love and ear-scratching and the next you're covered in a splash of gelatinous snot that clings to you like corn syrup. The double whammy is when Newman is eating his dinner and produces a sneeze that refurbishes my kitchen walls with an abstract kibble stucco. Burping is also a lovely by-product of consuming his meal and can usually be heard during the dead silence of saying grace at Thanksgiving. Different variations and consistencies of throw-up could be discussed here, but I think my point has been made. And while I know you fellow dog owners can empathize with the above, I strongly advise against broaching this subject at formal dinner parties.
I would not miss the Newman/Wally Civil War, which has been waging now for two years with, thankfully, no casualties. Well, no physical casualties, although I think Newman's self-esteem has been beaten into a Woody Allen-type angst. Newman just cannot grasp why Wally loathes him strictly on the basis of his existence. Much like my sentiments towards Donald Trump's barber. And Newman has been very sympathetic towards the Fat Cat since his diagnosis with diabetes. The area between Wally's shoulder blades has been shaved so that I can administer the needles easily and Newman takes great care in licking this peculiar bald spot. Wally interprets this as a soggy assault on his epidermis and proceeds to carve his initials in Newman's nose.
I would not miss the seasonal upkeep on that very active, clumsy lab. In the spring, I have to hose him down because of the ground and snow thawing, leaving Newman to look like Pig Pen. In the summer, I have to bathe him weekly because he swims in the Bow River and smells like a duet of trout and algae. In the fall, I use the leaf-blower on him because he rolls in the fallen, dehydrated remnants of anything that was once in a tree. And in the winter, I have to pick the ice out from between the pads of his feet with my eyebrow tweezers. Newman is like the ever-rotating departments at Canadian Tire.
So, if I were to eliminate these canine eccentricities from my life, my day-to-day existence would be quiet, calm, peaceful, dirt-free and orderly. And what would I miss? Well, that's easy. Newman.
Dee Clair
Calgary, Alberta
This column is lovingly dedicated to Katie Blake, whose parents miss her every day.