When I get home every night before my honey, Biscuit celebrates by running around the yard. I call it her “dogabration” and sing a version of Celebration (yes, by Kool and the Gang). They’re not very clever alternative lyrics, but she takes such joy in my coming home that it seems worthy of a song.
The problem with Biscuit, of course, is that those moments of joy are so fundamentally brief relative to the moments where she really can’t contain her base-self. Honey calls her “all id,” which is right. See cat, chase cat. Want cat poop, eat cat poop. See sock, eat sock. She’s not stupid--she just has no filter.
Which can be my problem too, though in a very different way.
Since I’ve not been able to correct the no-filter problem in my life, I sometimes despair of doing it in Biscuit’s life.
In the meantime, at least there’s the dogabaration in which we “dogabrate and have a good time. So bring your Biscuits and your Halos too, we’re going to dogabrate and party with you.” Join us sometime.
5 comments:
I like it when you get home before me and therefore have time to dogabrate before we get down to the serious business of deciding what to make for dinner. Any energy spent in the backyard is energy not spent in the house, on Biscuit's part, not yours—you can spend all the energy you want indoors.
As we all know, Biscuit's energy stores are never fully exhausted, and recharge nearly instantly. The concept of a "zero-sum game" simply doesn't apply to B. D. Dog's choice of indoor/outdoor energy output. Perhaps we have discovered the world's first perpetual motion machine!
My great-grandfather spent a lot of time trying to build a perpetual motion machine that could defy the gravity of the planet. As you might expect, it didn't work. On the upside of no gravity, I gather they're going to hit a golf ball off the space station and it will travel 2.1 Billion miles. I'd like to suggest they hit all the golf balls off the space station and then there would be no more golf.
Can you imagine you belong to some far off alien civilization when golf balls from space come hurtling mysteriously into your world?
I watch too much sci fi. Clearly.
But on another note, your song reminds me fondly of the dog park song you used to sing to Carter.
If/when the golf balls come hurtling into the aliens' world, possibly hitting aliens on the heads and hurting them (that is, if aliens have heads and their heads are hurtable by golf balls), there will be my vindication that golf is just *wrong*. Of course, I think golf is wrong because so many of the people who are enthusiastic about it are diametrically opposed to me in social, cultural, and political ways. They being who they are, they might feel vindicated that golf is wonderful, having eliminated some alien "evildoers" out there...
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