Normal things happening non-stop start to get to a person. Going through the average every day rigmarole can really start to wear on a person’s sanity if you ask me. That might explain the current love affair with reality tv. Every day people having their every day lives shaken up some.

So i changed the dogs food or something. All I know is she hasn’t been feeling so well. Shit everywhere. All that hair just seems to bring the shit into every corner imaginable. Shit on the bed, on the floor, carpets, in my goddamn shoe. I go to put my shoe on and there is poop in it. She wakes me up in the middle of the night, with her tiny sad little paws sayin’ “Come on man, I gotta poop so bad” so I take her out and there is still shit on the floor in the morning.

So at work there seems to always be a child there just fucking with everything. Shit everywhere. Tables, floors, work, fridges, shit everywhere. Turn your head for a minute and more shit. Went to drink my apple juice today, don’t even know what she did to it, but sure didn’t taste like apple juice. Go to put some sugar and that shit is filled with salt.

Kids are like dogs. Cute as shit when it is someone else but when you find yourself stuck with one for 20 odd years just getting rid of the things seem like a good idea sometimes. Not that you ever would. I could never understand people shaking babies or whatever baby haters might do or puppy kickers but sometimes you just wish they would calm the fuck down.

Which brings me to the real heart of this thought. If I were to steal a child I would steal an Asian baby. Let’s face it, no one wants to steal your shitty white baby. You love em and that’s great but then you are stuck with somebody elses little shit factory. Fat little white babies don’t hold a candle to an Asian baby. Not only are the pre-disposed to be a little awesome everything but you end up looking like a humanitarian because people think you have adopted a poor orphan from Asia instead of just stealing it from an unsuspecting shopping cart. I want to run into the rich old adopting white ladies pushing their adopted Asian babies and make up stories about how much my little baby who can’t even walk yet has such a big personality and how much they love going to mommy and me swim time where I wade around with a bunch of awkward middle-aged women and babies in tiny yellow floaties. All those old hens would go “h man isn’t he young and good to be adopting such an adorable baby.

The difference would be that I would grow bored of the stolen baby and sneak it back much faster than I would for my shitty dog. There is one big reason for that: the dog will never have a birthday party. She will never be ten and have a bunch of other peoples little addle brained shit heads running around the house like kittens on crack.

I am already dreading the house full of other people’s shitty turds.


 


So I know my dog is not all that smart, or all that big.  Sometimes I just like to see how stupid I think. It’s really a dark thing to do.

 

So I popped in downstairs and as I was leaving I was handed a ball of tinfoil full of steak. I thought to myself that this piece of steak was nearly as big as her head (which is deceptively tiny, she just has a giant mane). I thought to myself as I unwrapped this piece of meat ‘I should really take the time to chop this up for her’.
I didn’t.

Then I thought ‘well she’ll probably chew it pretty well’.    She didn’t.

 

So there is my dog choking and I’m standing watching thinking ‘this can’t really get that serious’. After a little bit though I had images of me trying to give this stupid little dog the tiniest Heimlich maneuver you ever seen, cause the dog is definitely smaller than a baby. I would’ve had to just roll my knuckle up there. This is all assuming you can actually give a dog the Heimlich.

This is why I will never be a doctor. I am much more likely to help my choking dog with enthusiasm than a dying person. They whine and complain ‘Ouuuu poor me’. My dog just coughed that giant hunk of meat back up and went right back at it. She might not be so stupid cause she did chew it this time. If she was a boy dog I think she would’ve been doin the helicopter with excitement.

Here is her cracky eyes when I gave her the meat.

 


When my father was younger, in college, he had a huge amount of plants and fish tanks. Like in a one bedroom apartment he had something like 17 fish tanks and more than a hundred plants. When he was telling me about this it was with no modest amount of pride. He would actually bring girls back to this strange amazonian forest like apartment, which I’m sure was humid and smelled somewhat like bog water.
He had his party tricks as we all do to try and woo a lady. He would show the girls how he had trained the fish. Granted I think this to be much more tactful then yelling helicopter and taking your penis and spinning it around as fast as you can. Anyhow, he would tap on the glass of the tank and the fish would rise to the top of the tank. This was impressive to him, which is justifiable, because fish really aren’t meant to be trainable, with their tiny brains (which is really all relative). I can’t imagine it really made their jaws or their pants drop.

Considering he could have his fish listen to him and I can hardly get this little bugger to come when I ask her to is one of those things that gets to me. You know how you expect to surpass those that taught you at some point, but teaching this little animal is one point where I fall short. Oh, I’ve read the books, and had a strange man stop me on the street and give me a card that says dog whisperer on it, but that’s about as far as it goes.

In my mind though so long as she doesn’t maul a child and shit in my bed I’m ok with her barking at an empty night when she’s in the back yard. I don’t have to go ahead and put her in a burlap sack…yet.

Here is a drawing of her I did for a painting I put up in a bar of her as the anti-christ.

So the anti-christ drawing didn’t save properly and I’ve already cut it up for the painting.. so if you had wanted to see it you’ll have to find out where in Montreal it’s hanging (hint: a bar on Crescent st.)

If you look up pictures of the anti-christ it is 4 pages of pictures of Obama…oh America.


There is no picture posted of the dog in full. There will never be a full picture of the dog. The impression is made well enough with her eyes, but from the pictures you can decipher that she is not a big dog.

Her size comes into question when she tries to do the kind of thing a big dog would do like saving you from drowning or retrieve ducks or on a rabbit hunt. Only a couple of those really come into play, what with being city folk and all.

So there we are, early morning, fishing away. Looking to hook something for some lunch. It is the nice kind of lake you think ‘I probably wouldn’t even get beaver fever from drinking this lake water while thirsty’ which you should never do…you’ll be very sick. Then you’ll poo yourself…while a girl slaps you and calls you an idiot…. So it’s early morning, the fish are out. It’s quiet. Smells fresh. No boats on this isolated lake. Wild turkeys around. Bears in the dump. Near that town the Tragically Hip sing about. Bobcaygeon.

Just a man, a woman, a dog, and nature.

Really a nice time to relax, but there are more than a few fish in this lake. The dog trouble comes in every time we are reeling a fish in to the dock the dog sees the fish and jumps in to get this fish that is about the size she is. No way to get out, no real plan, just sees a fish and jumps at it. That was one of the first times I thought my dog was an idiot. Tries to be helpful, but really doesn’t think things through.

She isn’t the only one that doesn’t think things through. After pulling this confused wet little monster out of the water countless times we had a bucket with a couple of fish in it. The part not though through is when the bucket was carried up to the cottage, plopped down on the picnic table. Threw one of those slippery silvery buggers onto the wooden picnic table. Not being a usual fisher went through the usual round of fish murder techniques:
-Punched it in the mouth

-Hit it with a rock

-Held it upside down and whispered that it was an idiot then hit it against the table while crying

-Pulled out a big knife and cut it’s head off (actually worked)

The mouth just keeps opening and closing, all bodiless and bloody. We have started drinking heavily to make me feel less guilty for punching and dirty talking to a fish. Fuckin little bitch ass fish, I’m gonna getcha so bad.

It was 9am and there I was drunk gutting fish and calling my dog an idiot.

 

I’d make a great country bumpkin. Also here is two drawings of the dog cause I made two trying to get a good one, and didn’t…so here:

 


It’s nice that dogs let you know when they need to go out, and when they want attention and even when they want to play. The part that gets me about it though is when she wakes me up at three or four a.m. just staring at me poking me in the face. This gets me thinking…about bears.

If I were a bear and I had some little jerk poking around in my cave and waking me up after I been asleep for 2 months and I hadn’t eaten I would just maul the hell out of that thing. I would tear it to shreds then wear those shreds like some horrible vintage tattered dress made of man skin or some kind of Jana Sterbak design.

Not only would I maul them but I would truly enjoy it. I was never really that afraid of bears cause I always thought to myself:

‘I’m not going spelunking so I’m safe’
or
‘I probably don’t taste as good as a fresh salmon anyhow’

But bears are the the reason I stopped dating a girl. What I saw as her irrational fear of bears just made no sense to me. It was an obstacle I couldn’t get around. Walking drunk in the woods at night or along cliffs I always thought that the last thing you need to worry about is bears. She would shout and cry, hootin and hollerin ‘I sure hope there aren’t any bears around’ and I would yell ‘I just want to see some goddamn bears, would you just shut your damn trap for 10 minutes’.

Never got to see any bears in Banff or Vancouver Island, did try and fight an elk. Poor decision making.
Next girl I dated, took her to a dumpyard. We watched the bears. When that hulk of an animal started lumbering towards us for getting too close and we screamed and ran to the car I thought maybe the other one was smarter but fuck bears are cool.

All this to say that when that dog wakes me up I think about eating it, or at least just punching it in its tiny adorable nose, so here is a picture of it staring at me at night:

And another one cause I haven’t drawn one for a few days:


I think I figured it out today, the question that has been plaguing me. The reason people become such dog people is that moment when you get home and they are just the happiest to see you ever. They may have torn up all your things, crapped every where or just slept all day, but they are still just so happy.

The dog owner on the other hand was probably much shittier all day. Might have spent a whole day doing something completely useless and monotonous, might have been a complete dick and made someone’s day shitty, hell you could’ve shanked a hobo just because you both happened to be in the same alleyway and just couldn’t shake the thought that it was either you or him.

Anyhow what it boils down to is that the animal doesn’t care if their owner is a total moron or hammered, as long as they are feeding it and not kicking it around all the time.

I think if the dogs new how goddamn boring the people are half the time they would be a lot less interested each time you open that door when you get home from work.

Today’s drawing is trying to illustrate the excitement my dog feels and how she is a goddamn star:

The goal is to draw the dog differently each day but I’m thinking soon I’ll have to be painting the little bugger to keep it interesting.


Protest as we do about not becoming one of those dog people, the type that refer to you by your dog’s name, we are not at that point yet. I say yet because I go to find a picture on my dear lady’s phone and find that the breakdown of content is the following:

80% Dog
10% Me
10% Scenery (flowers, trees, that kind of thing)

Now that part is not all that strange. She is incredibly photogenic, the dog. The breakdown reminded me of another time that I was at a loss for words. As is the usual for my memorable occasions (that do not occur within my own house) I was in a nearby bar. Not the nicest bar by any means but also not one that I worry about getting shanked, or that appear to be having an awards supper for homeless including a shrimp ring.

So while at the bar I strike up a conversation with a man. Construction worker. We get talking, I tell him I used to work construction, but that is about all the chit chat I have for him. He tells me about his life, family and whatnot, but when he pulls out his phone to show me pictures he skips over any of his family or anything else and goes straight to photos of the dump truck he drives. The photos are followed up with way too much talk about his driving the dump truck.

This is what I worry might happen to my lady or I if i am not careful. No one wants to be that guy.

So here is a drawing of the dog laying around like a little baby princess:


So I’ve been way too into the Christianity schtick lately. Apocalypse, antichrist, you know, that whole dig.

So last night after drinking too much wine I went into the corner store, asked the man where he kept his finest cured meats. He looked at me like I had two heads. I said nevermind, I’ll find the meat on my own.

I did find the meat.

It was one of the best meatsticks I have ever had, or its just been a while since I’ve had a meatstick, or I had just drank too much wine.

So in the street I started yelling about how if others wouldn’t eat this holy meatstick when the meatpocalypse came round they would not be saved.

They ate the meatstick too.

Sometimes I think that my dog enjoys meats and cheese just as much.

Did you know the depiction of the antichrist is a seven headed dog?


At least I like to think I haven’t fallen into that strange zone in life where people consider themselves to be dog people. When or if you ever end up in a dog park, hoping to have your dog ‘socialize’ so she’s less racist and less of a little jerk, there are many things about it that you, like me, find quite strange.

For many of the people that are there it is like a bar where you don’t have to drink and the whole thing has a strange sort of anonymity to it. You can socialize with the other dog owners, but they will ask more about your dog than anything, and refer to you as ‘Margot’s’ Dad.

I think that is weird as shit.

On that note they will also talk about their dog’s poop surprisingly often.

Like when I go to a bar I often just sit off in a corner, bring a book and try to pretend these grown adults aren’t just sitting around talking about dog shit.

I’m going to put up a couple of drawings today so I’m forced to do new ones everyday instead of sitting round on my laurels.



The dog has pretty cool hair, crimped up by the neck, like some kind of jazzercise dancer in the 80s and early 90s. Sometimes I wish though that she had hair like in the future vision of the 90s (aka Keanu in Johnny Mnemonic).

Really makes you disappointed when you watch older movies that had predictions of the 2010s and how cool they are. I am pretty disappointed I don’t have a servant robot or hoverboard. All I’ve wanted since Back to the Future 2 is a damn hoverboard.

Here’s a drawing of a dog:


Walking back from the pool today talking about how much pool water we drink got me thinking. Pool water can’t be good for you if how red my eyes turn is any indication. Whenever we are back in Ottawa the dog is always drinking the pool water and my dad says ‘oh it’s no worse for you than drinking water, she can drink it.’

I think that has to be bullshit. One thought volunteered was that we re-route the pool water into the house water taps and secretly have the house drinking pool water all the time and see how they fare, but that’s the kind of thinking that really gets you into trouble.
On that note here is today’s drawing:

 

 


Today is one of those days. Not too much interesting going on here. She isn’t barking at the tv or trying to her us like dumb little sheep. So instead of boring you with writing about her obsessions with cheese, her carrot, or belly rubs here are 2 pictures of her instead of one:

This second drawing of the dog asks the question ‘what if the dog and the carrot are one in the same, the dog is the carrot and the carrot is the dog?’
What if?


Dogs will be dogs right? They crap, they bark, sniff each others butts, and they chew things. The problem this week is what she decides to chew. She has some kind of expensive taste.

On top of the fact that she has expensive taste this is a tale of oral hygiene. No one looks cool talking about oral hygiene.

So I go to see my alarmist dentist (you know the kind that says ‘beware the end is near for your teeth, unless you have $800). It’s the kind of dentist office that smells like cheap Asian, ham-filled buns, is located in in the metro,and hasn’t updated the office since ’84. So this dentist tells me that if I keep grinding my teeth at night I’m going to grind them right away. I’ll be that toothless dancing man just shouting about Jesus in front of the liquor store before you know it is pretty much what she’s telling me.

Buy a personalized mouth guard is the only solution she tells me. at $500 this little piece of plastic is a steal she tells me. I should have told the bitch right then that she was crazy, but the vision of me without teeth was horrifying.

I get the thing, I’m even wearing it often. I get to bed though and I’m lisping and drooling like an awkward pre-teen with head gear on.

I won’t go pretending like you guys are stupid and don’t know where this is going, but that little hell-raiser tore the whole thing into tiny pieces. Ripped it to tiny plastic shreds. The problem then became which became more valuable, the dog or the mouth guard (the mouth guard was already gone but I wanted to kill her anyhow. It’s the kind of situation you wish could be fixed like you were a bookie, or Micheal Jackson and you hold the dog over the balcony and tell her to cough it up or she’ll be sorry, see.

All that to say I didn’t skin her and make a scarf out of her. She’s still here, and still cute, and here’s today’s drawing of her:


There are a lot of great things about having a small dog at the park with you. I am pretty sure less people would come up and want to talk to me at the park or stop and say aww if I was juggling flaming knives and babies at the same time. It is pretty great.

 

‘Oh, I’m sorry, did my adorable dog just come and sit with you ladies and make friends, I’ll get that little rascal out of your way.’

 

What could be better right? Only downside about the whole thing is that somehow I’ve ended up with a racist dog. I feel terribly guilty about the whole thing, but you can’t really sit a dog down and explain why racism is wrong. Little white kids come up and she is all ‘what’s up man wanna hang?’ but anyone else and she’s all barking and scaring the kids.

 

So here is a drawing of my little asshole racist dog in all her glory :

(she is a proud but stupid dog)


What are 2 things the world loves? I’ll tell you: dogs and blogs. Fact. So here is day one of my daily drawings of my dogs. Mixed in with a few musings as to her day to day thoughts.

Day 1:

The first night we had the dog at home we were well more than a little drunk. I fell into bed and this little jerk just stares at me without saying anything, her tiny judging eyes. They said to me ‘if I were a child you would be a terribly unfit parent right now’. Damn judging dogs.

Day 2: