The Perfect Song Blog

Dog lovers, I have had a breakthrough!
A little background. When I brought Tyler, the Australian Blue Heeler, home, he was about four months old. He was house-broken in about four days. Heelers are a smart breed.
It took Zeus, the German Shepherd, a little longer.
So when Tristan came along at Christmas, a cute black and gray blob of fur, I figured he’d be house-broken in a week.
Two weeks later, Leigh and I were still working on him, failing miserably. He’d run down to the front door and poop. He peed anywhere he happened to be. We were buying paper towels by the gross at Sam’s Club just to keep up with the large pee puddles.
We watched him, of course, but he’s a sneaky little guy and as soon as we did something like, say, blink, he’d pee. I’d take him outside and run him around, and he’d pee. We’d come back into the house and he’d finish peeing.
How can one puppy process so much water?
Slowly, he began going to the sliding glass door in the kitchen and we would literally run to it because as soon as he gave us the signal, he also peed. We had about 2.5 seconds to respond.
This morning he trotted to the sliding glass door, scratched on it and sat waiting. I was very suspicious. This was too good to be true. It was a trick. I opened the door, he walked out — and peed.
I swear I almost got teary-eyed. We were one step further down the road of progress.
Do you remember when your kids were finally potty trained and you had these really mixed feelings of relief because the end of diapers was in sight, yet your heart was heavy because it meant they were growing up?
That’s how I felt.
I’m not kidding.
The sadness doesn’t come close to the joy of not having to go through another two dozen rolls of paper towels.
January 20, 2007, 10:06 a.m. A moment to remember.
Oh, by the way, here’s some updated shots of Tristan “The Devil Dog.”

I finally started my Christmas shopping the other night. Went straight to the mall from work, rode the escalator up to the food court that overlooks the main floor of stores. I walked from restaurant to restaurant. No hot dogs, though they’re tempting. Pizza? Too bland. Chinese. Pass tonight. I wandered over to Burger King and looked over the menu.

And did the inexplicable. I ordered a Double Whopper with cheese. As the waitress handed it to me I realized the Devil does exist and he lurks at fast food restaurants. I suppose no good decision can be made at a fast food place but what I did was just plain dumb. Double Whoppers should be reserved only for football players, over-sized wrestlers and starving rednecks.

God, the thing had the heft of a bowling ball.

I sat down, unwrapped it and just shook my head. There are a lot of things wrong in America and sandwiches like this are one of them.

Two black teen guys sat kitty corner from me. The one on the left played with his cell phone as only a confident, energetic high school male can. He talked into the machine with it about six inches from his mouth. He and his friend laughed. I thought they were laughing at me but they were looking at someone behind me.

A young woman with black hair and clothes to match sat at another table, leaning back against the wall talking on her phone.

I lifted the Burger King monster to my mouth and realized I couldn’t open my jaws wide enough to take a real bite. Reddish yellow liquid drizzled lazily down my fingers. I laid it back down. This wasn’t a supper. It was an event. A sticky, sloppy, awkward event.

By the time I finished, my wrapper was a battlefield of pieces of lettuce, tomatoes, onions, teeth-mangled pickles and the reddish yellow goo formed by the combination of ketchup and creamy mayonnaise.

Goo made itself at home in my mustache and beard. My fingers were tacky.

I sat before this mess and felt embarrassed.

The two guys continued talking into the cell and laughing. I finally realized they were joking around – by cell – with one of the cooks in Burger King. I wrapped up my mess and walked past the girl in black who must have been a clerk in Macy’s or the jewelry store, one of those places that hires beautiful people, tells them to dress like a million bucks and pays them minimum wage.

“You’re a liar,” she said into the phone, smiling. “Yes. You are.” You could tell she really liked the guy she was calling a liar.

I continued on. There’s only one place to go after downing a Double Whopper with cheese.

The Men’s room. Double the soap and hold the towels. I’ll be after them shortly.