Monday, April 26, 2010

Dining With Maurice-- A Short Story by Me.

Dining With Maurice.
A short story by Frank Criscenti

It was a terrible time in Wayne's life for his dog to start acting weird.
Wayne had spent a half-hour just that morning, studying his thinning hair. And, after another argument last night, his five-year-old relationship with Janice seemed over for good this time. So when he looked out and saw Maurice, the dog he'd owned for 16 years, chomping down mouthfuls of soil, it seemed somehow the beginning of the end.
Wayne called Janice about the dog. It was a good excuse to talk.
"Yes?" she said, sounding impatient.
"The dog's acting crazy."
"What's he doing?"
"He eats dirt."
"So take him to the vet. He's probably senile."
"You think so?"
It was a good point. Janice always had the easy answers. He sensed the end of their conversation and was anxious to seize this opportunity.
"Do you want to meet for dinner?" he asked.
"How 'bout a movie tomorrow? There's a French film at the Guild."
"I have plans," she said, and hung up.

Wayne had been seeing a psychiatrist for several months. Janice had suggested it some time ago and he finally relented. The psychiatrist looked like Joanne Woodward.
Every week, Wayne arrived 15 minutes early at the medical center, with Maurice riding in the passenger's seat. They'd park. Before Wayne went in to his appointment he took Maurice for a short walk around the parking lot. They wouldn't walk far since the dog suffered from arthritis. Maurice would hobble about, sniff and snort about the islands of trees and bushes, pissing here and there. Wayne tugged at the leash before Maurice became overly-interested in any morsels of soil. After their walk, he'd put the dog in the car and roll the window down a little for air. Then Wayne went inside to his appointment.

"Call me Ellen..." the doctor would say when Wayne called her "Doctor."
"Ellen..." he would say.
"Wayne..." the doctor would say.
During some sessions that was as close as they got to a breakthrough. They'd exchange pleasantries, then all conversation stopped. All the words unsaid probably meant something, but Wayne couldn't decide what it might be. Whenever he was at a session he kept thinking of the concept of negative space.
When he asked why she didn't ask him questions, she said it wasn't her job. That he would talk when he was ready.
But Wayne never felt ready.
It depressed him. He worried he might have some incurable malaise.

Wayne called Maurice's vet.
"Have you ever heard of a dog eating dirt?" he asked the receptionist.
She said no, but hold and she would ask the vet.
The vet got on. "What does he eat?"
"What kind of dirt?"
"Just your ordinary garden variety," Wayne said. "He prefers the clods actually."
"Do you feed him?"
"Of course. He gets kibble, a little canned stuff, and a few left-overs."
"This happens sometimes," the vet said. "Make an appointment with my receptionist and bring him in."
He lied to the receptionist and told her he would make an appointment as soon as he checked his schedule.
Wayne decided as long as Maurice remained healthy enough for an old, unhealthy dog, what harm could a couple of mouthfuls of dirt do.

One night Wayne awoke to strange animal moans in the backyard. He threw on his robe and went outside to find Maurice rolling in the dirt, his eyes glassy and full of terror. Once, on a vacation in Northern California, when Wayne was a child, his father hit a deer with the car. He remembered the deer had the same look in its eyes right before the car hit it. Wayne thought it was the end for his buddy. He carried the dog into the house, took him on his lap. All night he sat up, stroking Maurice's grey-flecked muzzle. Come morning, Wayne called in sick to his job at the Department of Motor Vehicles. He made Maurice vegetable beef soup from a can and fed him with a big wooden spoon. That afternoon Maurice wobbled to his feet, though he listed. When the dog wagged his tail it seemed to throw off his balance completely.
Wayne took his pal to the vet. The vet kept Maurice overnight. When Wayne called the vet early the next afternoon, the vet told him the dog had congestive heart failure and all the tests he'd run and all the pills he might give might allow Maurice another six months of life.
Wayne called Janice and told her about Maurice.
"Sometimes I think you loved that dog more than me," Janice said.
"That's not true," he said, though it was.
They argued.
Janice hung up on Wayne.
She always took the easy way out.

Wayne picked up Maurice from the vet in the afternoon after work. The bill came to $606. Maurice wagged his tail so hard when he saw Wayne that he slipped off his feet to the floor. The dog looked up at his master, then licked his paw, seemingly embarassed for his lack of control.

One day, Wayne decided to open up to Ellen and tell her about his arguments with Janice.
He said, "Janice says I'm noncommital and obsessive. She says I'm certainly neurotic and possibly psychotic."
"Who is she to say?" Ellen said. "She's not a professional."
"Do you think I am?"
"What she said."
"That pisses me off," Ellen said.
"Am I possibly psychotic?"
"Do you think you are?"
"I don't know," he said. "I mean, I can't tell one way or the other. It's me we're talking about. That's why I come here after all."
"That's right," she said. "You're here to learn about yourself. What some nonprofessional says about you is irrelevant."
"Right," he said.
"Right," she said.
So Wayne talked about himself. He talked about Janice. Everything Wayne revealed about himself and how he felt, Ellen, though seeminly preoccupied, said it was reasonable that he felt the way he did, she understood why he would respond the way he did. It wasn't important what a nonprofessional said about him.
It depressed Wayne.
Then he told Ellen about Maurice eating dirt. Ellen seemed to find the story interesting. She said in humans such a condition was called "parorexia." Professionals knew that, she said, and some people ate fabric, ashes from ashtrays, whole pencils and even worse.
By the time Wayne left the office he had decided even his dog led a more interesting life than he.

One night Wayne ordered take-out Chinese food and brought it home and shared it with Maurice. They ate together at the dinette in the kitchen. The dog ate chow mein, fried shrimps, and beef from the broccoli beef.

A few nights later Wayne ordered two Philly cheese steak sandwiches-- one for him and one for the dog.

Wayne longed to take his pal to Paris. From what Wayne understood, the French had a healthy respect for dogs, allowed their pets to dine with them even in the best restaurants.
Wayne called a travel agent and asked about touring France with a dog. The agent said he'd look into it but called back the next day and told him the laws about bringing animals into France were overly-restrictive.
This news depressed Wayne.

Wayne went to one of the best French restaurants in town and ordered two meals to go. He told the waiter it was for a shut-in. It wasn't really lying to say that, he'd decided.
Wayne sat on a chair near the reception area while the meal was being prepared. Men in suits and ties and women in black dresses with strands of white pearls stared at him as he sat there waiting. To shut out their stares, Wayne closed his eyes and imagined himself and Maurice in France, drinking wine and munching escargot. He wondered if Maurice would eat escargot. Could he get Maurice a little tie to wear over his neck for formal dinners? He thought how they would sit there, in France, in a French restaurant, and the French people would say to the two of them, "Quel chien adorable!"
At home, Maurice devored the filet de boeuf.

Wayne told Ellen abouot dining with his dog. It seemed to perk her interest.
"Maybe you need to go out of the house more," she said.
But there wasn't time. Maurice needed him.
The dog's health became worse. Wayne took him back to the vet but the vet said nothing could be done.
Wayne asked for time off work. He had it coming. He rarely took vacations, only when Janice had insisted he take her someplace.
Besides, this was an emergency.

Wayne stayed home all day and cooked for himself and his pal. He always was a pretty fair cook, if unadventurous.
Maurice lay around most of the day, dozing in the triangle of sunlight on the floor in the dining room. The dog only ventured outside for a few minutes a day to do his business and have a mouthful of dirt. At dinnertime, Wayne had to lift Maurice into his seat at the dinette. The dog ate less and less, even when served steaks, meatloaf, or boneless chicken. He was wasting away.
It depressed Wayne.
Wayne called Janice.
"Maurice doesn't hardly eat at all," he said.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I know you cared for him."
"He's not gone yet," Wayne said.
There was a brief silence.
He thought she might be thinking up a remedy for the dog's poor appetite. Maybe she would give him a recipe. A special steak Janice, or salmon in puff pastry Janice. She always had the easy answers.
"Wayne," she said after a moment.
"Yes?" he said. That was it. All would be well. Janice would come back to him and they would care for Maurice together. He would show off his new skills in the kitchen. They would go to France together-- no, they would move to France with Maurice.
"I've been seeing someone else for some time now," she said. "It's serious."
Well, there it was, Janice just looking out for her own narrow self-interest. "This is more serious," he said. "How unprofessional of you to bring it up." Wayne hung up.

He told Ellen about Maurice.
"Sometimes you have to let an old friend go and move on with your life," she said.
"I don't want to," he said.
"You must."
Before Wayne left that day he stopped at the receptionist's desk and cancelled the rest of his appointments with the doctor.

Maurice fell one day while he was walking on the hardwood floor. He just collapsed. Wayne was alerted to the fall by the scrape of Maurice's nails.
The dog lay in the hallway, legs spread at an odd angle. When Wayne ran up to him , Maurice never bothered to try to get to his feet, but just lay there, staring up at Wayne with a sad, helpless look in his brown dog eyes.
The end was near. Wayne couldn't let his pal know he knew, but then again, he couldn't let him go without some special goodbye.
Wayne decided to make Maurice a special dinner with all his favorites.
He went shopping. He cooked all day. When the meal was prepared, he lifted Maurice into the seat at the dinette, and brought the covered plates to the table. He toasted the dog with a goblet of wine, then uncovered the plates. There was dirt with rice and dirt with meatloaf and dirt with apple tart. Wayne and his pal ate and, for a little while, it seemed as if they hadn't a care in the world.


This story first appeared in the Santa Clara Review. Spring 1993.

Don't forget Carly-- the dog of the week at the HSSV. See yesterday's post for more info.

I'm trying to scan a pic of Maurice, but suddenly the printer/scanner is on the blink. GRRR!

A Little Bit of Everything. The Dog Chronicles.

Adopt Carly. See bottom of this post for number. Carly is a good ball chaser.

I hoped to have a dog short story ready for you today. One of mine, but I couldn't find it on a disk, therefore I am having to type it out from the magazine. I know you are all panting, waiting for it. This week sometime, I promise.

In the meantime, I am going to run some images and reintroduce Carly, the dog in need. Also a picture of my dog Lulu and my kid's dogs.

I've been going crazy trying to promote this website. I admit it seems hopeless at this point. I think I have something unique-- something beyond cute puppies. Apparently the world wants cute puppies. I will not give in. Yes, I feel I am speaking to the myself. I will not give up. I may be on the Raft of Medusa, but by God, there is a ship in the distance.

Remember, all the dogs shown here come from puppy jail (sorry a shelter.) They're great animals, everyone of them.

Adopt Carly (the dog chasing the ball.) Saturday's post gives more info about her. Here's the phone # of the HSSV who has Carly now. Give her a good home. 408- 262-2133x120. There should be a link to Carly on Saturday's post. If not, call the number.

Saturday, April 24, 2010

This Dog Needs a Home. Really.

I am going to run a dog for adoption once a week now. Let's put the puppy mills out of existence. Rescue a dog in need.


Animal ID: 72576

Sex: Female

Age: 2Yrs 3Mths 1Wks

German Shepherd mix

Weight: 47.9


Smart, social, and beautiful, I'm the complete package. Because I'm so smart, I have learned all my basic obedience commands. Because I'm so beautiful, the staff and volunteers here love to relax with me and pet me. They seem to enjoy stroking my silky gold and black coat, so I thank them with kisses and soulful looks with my golden eyes. Because I'm so friendly, I hope to meet a family that has another dog at home for me to play with or perhaps arrange for doggie play dates for me if you don't have another dog. Back to the smart thing, the staff and volunteers here keep telling me how smart I am really? Just because I ride calmly in the car, perform sit, down, wait, and look at me? Hah, that nothing I can do more! So HSSV is sponsoring a training package for my new family a free training class at A Dogs Life and a free dog training book. So lets you and I get started on my advanced training, bring a squeaky toy when you come to visit me and ask me to sit before you toss it to me. You are going to be impressed with what you can teach me, see you soon!

 Humane Society Silicon Valley
901 Ames Ave.
Milpitas CA 95035
408- 262-2133x120

I think the HSSV has a You Tube Video of Carly so check it out. Hopefully I will run the link in the future.

Friday, April 23, 2010

Dog Headed Men-- Remember Those St. Christopher Medals?

There are various reports throughout history of dog-headed men. St. Christopher was said to be one. Reports persisted through the ages about races of dog-headed people. One explanation was that St. Christopher was a Canaanite-- get it, Canine. This is how these things worked. Unicorns may have been rhinos. Trees looked like deer, therefore spontaneous regeneration was a fact. All these seemingly nonsense explanations helped define the ancient world. Many ancient travellers spread these rumors.
The kingdom of Prester John is another example of taking proof of dubious value and running with it. In medieval times, when Europe was looking for protection from the hordes of Eastern invaders, suddenly Prester John sprang into existence. A king of possessing fabulous riches and armies, Prester John supposedly lived in the Far East and was a Christian. An expedition was launched to find him. Reports of people who hopped about on feet like a giant tongue and rivers that ran full of gems filtered back to Europe. The church had received a letter from Prester John, so his existence was a fact.
The only problem was-- the letter was a fake.
Who knows the explanation for these dog-faced tribes. If you find a dog-faced man though, I'd like to know about it. Actually, when I think about it, my old boss probably fit the profile. Now that wasn't nice.

I'd still like some three-headed dog photos. Come on. You can do it.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Looking for Something Like This. The Dog Chronicles.

A poor attempt perhaps at my dog Lulu as Cerberus.

Make My Day! Need Photos, Your Dog as Cerberus!

While on the subject of monsters, how about Cerberus? Who will photo-shop a photo of their dog as Cerberus for me? Here's a chance for all my readers (don't laugh, there's at least one of you with some time on your hands) to provide me with a photo-shopped picture of their dog as Cerberus. ALL PHOTOS OF THREE-HEADED CANINES WILL BE SHOWN HERE!
This should be fun.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Freshly-Cooked Werewolves-- The Dog Chronicles


I was surprised werewolves were not just a figment of some Hollywood screenwriter's imagination. But just like witches and vampires, at least those suspected to be witches and vampires, folks suspected of being werewolves got tossed on the fires just like any other devilish sort.

Often werewolves got blamed for killings when less "supernatural" beings might have been the better choice. In Germany, in the 1500's, one man said to be a werewolf, confessed to mass murder, cannibalism, incest with his own daughter and other devilish crimes. Unfortunately, both his daughter and his housekeeper shared the flames of his execution.

Werewolves and vampires took the rap for digging up corpses, drinking blood, and other sorts of mayhem. Many confessions for these crimes resulted from torture. Some of the suspects were mentally ill. It's just another example of man's inhumanity to man. And you thought you were having a bad day.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

The Wolf Man-- Or Was He The Wimp Man?


As promised-- The Wolf Man.
When I was a kid, fourth grade or so, monster movies were all the rage. Long discussions took place about who was the baddest-ass monster, usually involving the big four; Frankenstein's monster, Dracula, the Wolf Man, and the Mummy. Now this was before monster movies started being remade weekly. After the movies of the 30's like Frankenstein and Dracula, and the 1941 Wolf Man and the countless sequels like Bride of Frankenstein and the Wolf Man Meets Abbot and Costello, most of the rest of the films that featured monsters were morality tales about the danger of nuclear proliferation. Sci-fi monsters-- giant crabs and the like were pretty unscary. Except for Invasion of the Body Snatchers and The Thing, most of the later so-called monster movies didn't really scare kids.

Now Dracula was really cool and sinister if not all that scary. Frankenstein was something you couldn't watch by yourself, and even a whole family of cowboys couldn't stop that guy. When I was a kid, Frankenstein cost me a lot of sleep. The Mummy again wasn't so scary for me, and he was slow. The Wolf Man didn't do much for me. He didn't make me want to puke or lie awake waiting for him to come. The Wolf Man was a wimp.

First the movie had a 40's sensibility. While pre-code Dracula and Frankenstein's monster chased around babes in nightgowns, the Wolf Man chased women who reminded me of the Andrew's sisters-- for those of you who are younger, that is not a good thing. And boo-hoo, the Wolf Man didn't want to be a monster. Once monthly this guy had a problem, and he agonized over it the whole darn movie! Come on.
I can't imagine Dracula or Frankenstein's monster complaining like this guy. I mean Frankie's monster didn't ask to be reanimated. Boris Karloff as the monster showed his confusion and humanity if you will, but even if the monster could articulate his feelings, I doubt he would belly-ache about his problems like Lon Chaney Jr. as the Wolf Man. Dracula never once complained about his blood-lust.
The Wolf Man set in motion a whole, unappetizing series of monsters full of angst that continues even today. Vampires are tortured souls. Wolfmen are tortured souls. Even Frankenstein's monster is a tortured soul-- more in keeping with the original Mary Shelly monster admittedly, but unappealing nonetheless.
Give me Bela Lugosi every time. He had no problem draining every last drop of not only blood but virginity out of Miss Lucy. Now that's a monster! No belly-aching. No whining about his monsterness. No siree. Just lust and blood!
Frankenstein's monster too could throw the wood-cutter's daughter into the pond just like a flower. No agonizing. Hey, I misunderstood. I thought she could float. I got a bad brain-- now where's my master's bride, I'm feeling kinda lonely.
Imagine Bernie Madoff acting like the Wolf Man. No way right? Now there's a monster. "I didn't mean to do it, but I'd do it again in a hot minute." We need monsters. The world needs monsters. Who wants to take their time "understanding" mortgage bankers and the snake-oil salesmen who, much like Dracula, steal some poor dying bastard's last dime. Hey, I don't care how come you're a monster, I want my money back. We need monsters because when trouble comes, even when we thought 50% annual return on investment was possible, someone has to be blamed. I'm not trying to be sarcastic. We want to grab the torches and chase down the monster into the old windmill and burn the s.o.b. alive. You fooled us, now shut up and take your medicine.
Am I ranting? Perhaps. But give me my monsters the old-fashioned way. Monsterous. Unrepentant.
Now if Lon Chaney Jr. had changed into a pit bull perhaps I would've been scared.

Saturday, April 17, 2010

Velvet Rat Tails-- Cigar Dogs-- The Dog Chronicles


Very short posting today. Again, I want you guys to take a minute and look at the Cigar History Museum. Tony Hyman has thousands of photos of his collection, and if you don't know about cigar memorabilia, check it out. The artwork is amazing, and the exhibits listed for subject matter. One group of labels alone gives really bad cigar names. A couple of them are Velvet Rat Tail Cigars and Cycho.

Regarding the Buster Brown Cigar label shown yesterday-- Mr. Hyman says it is probably his single most valuable label.

Though I have permission to run photos of some of the cigar labels, for some reason they are written in a code of some sort that my machine will not accept. I was able to get one downloaded and will run it here. And remember, the museum is not run by tobacco companies nor is it meant to hook our youth or oldth on ciggies or stogies. It's a wonderful look back in time.

Sometime next week-- The Wolf Man!

Tonight-- special dinner for the wife made by my own two little paws.

Friday, April 16, 2010

More Buster Brown-- Not Shoes-- The Dog Chronicles

I was going to post something different today, but in view of the note I received from Tony Hyman of the Cigar Museum, I am continuing with Buster Brown and his dog Tige. Mr. Hyman's museum is really colorful and informative, and neither of us is trying to shill for the big (or small) tobacco companies so don't get up in arms anyone. The museum is a link to the past and well worth your time. This is one Internet museum where you can spend the day.

Re: use of labels

That's my dog Tige. He lives in a shoe. I'm Buster Brown. I live there too."
When I was a preteen back in the 1940's
The Ed McConnell kid's show on Saturday mornings @ 8am in LA was sponsored by BB.
Sure. Use 'em. Credit the Cigar History Museum at <>
Tony Hyman

Thanks again to Tony Hyman and Leah also for her memories of Buster Brown shoes. Leah's parents were nice enough to buy her Buster Brown shoes! Luck-y!

Thursday, April 15, 2010



God help us it is tax day. Here's hoping you don't owe. If you do-- well... sorry.

If you are a baby boomer, I want to take you back to simpler times with Buster Brown Shoes. Believe it or not, they still exist.

At the risk of seeming maudlin, we were a little less jaded when we were children, and it didn't take much to grab our attention.

Buster Brown commercials caught my attention. I remember being on a car ride and seeing a store that featured Buster Brown Shoes and begging-- yes, begging (a good dog word) my mother to stop at the store. Luckily it was a Sunday (stores were often closed on Sundays, even as late as my high school days) and my mother got off the hook from buying me those shoes.

All this connects to dogs because Buster Brown had a dog named Tige. Now Buster Brown and his dog had been around for decades when I was a kid in the 50's. Now I am a kid in my 50's. Perhaps I was an easy mark. But really, Buster Brown's dog and his dog pal appealed to children. That's part of the reason I thought people might like this site. I try to throw in a little nostaglia, some fun, and impart the importance of dogs in our lives. I don't remember all my old girlfriends' names, but I do remember every dog I ever had.

Speaking of stores being closed on Sundays, I used to head down to the mall in Pomona back in high school and every store was closed for the day but a Woolworths. Sears was closed, all the smaller shops were closed. God, life was boring. We could walk to the mall-- we could walk to the bowling alley and without a car, and even with a car, Sundays were a drag. Sometimes we even went to church just to kill a couple of hours. NO WONDER WE SMOKED CIGARETTES. There was nothing else to do. Saturday night we cruised the Taco drive in and if there wasn't a party that was it. Too bad we outgrew the Buster Brown's. You know, it's too bad I didn't have a dog back then.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

People Who Look Like Dogs-- Part III

Peter Lorre is our next human who looked like a dog-- a chihuahua in fact. This was not lost on the creators of Ren & Stimpy who often used a voice similar to Lorre's for the character of Ren. The photo of Lorre here is from the Maltese Falcon, a classic movie starring Bogart and Lorre among others. It regularly shows up on many top ten film lists.

Meow is all I can say regarding my Sarah Jessica Parker comments. Most folks say she resembles a horse. Again I will post the photos without comment and allow you all to decide.

Hopefully this blog will now come up in the new format. We are now officially a website.

Monday, April 12, 2010



You be the judge on this one. Does Sarah Jessica Parker look like an Afghan Hound or is it just the intelligent look?

If you want to be nice, send me your own ideas of famous people who resemble dogs. If not, I will continue.



The resemblance of Winston Churchill to a bulldog fortified the Brits throughout WWII. Churchill embraced the symbol and it typified the English steadfastness throughout the darkest times.
Of course, we are looking for famous people who probably would not embrace their doggedness or dogness if you will.
I want a picture of the person and the dog they look like. By the way, for those of you who have heard Rosie O'Donnell referred to as a bulldog, you are a few letters off.
Note the change in names to The Dog Chronicles. This will be a website, soon to launch. Thanks to those who read this and please, tell your friends to take a quick look.

Thursday, April 8, 2010



Hearing-impaired canines are becoming impatient with Cesar Millan, the Dog Whisperer. Harvey Steindog, spokesdog for the group CASS (Canines Against Soft-Speaking) says it's time the Dog Whisperer showed concern for all his fans, even the hearing-impaired.

"Couldn't he speak louder?" Mr. Steindog asks. "After all, we have enough problems without someone whispering all the time so we can't hear him."

While CASS has not so far taken any legal action against Mr. Millan, rumors are flying that they are considering suing the star for "a million bones."

Mr. Millan could not be reached for comment.

Keeping a close eye on CASS's demands are ghosts and horses.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

The Case Against Cats-- By the CCAFF-- Dogs in Space

Your source for doggie news. Lulu.


The Canine Crusade Against Feeding Felines (CCAFF) will from time to time use this space to give their reasons for being anti-cat.

1. Police Dog-- Cat Burglar-- you be the judge.

2. Ever heard of a seeing eye cat?

3. Cats do not know how to play poker.

4. Who poops in a box?

5. Even Hitler liked dogs. (Himmler too.)

6. Next time you want to be found alive under a collapsed building, try calling a cat.

Remember-- Feeding cats only encourages them.

The Case Against Cats-- By the

The Case Against Cats-- By the

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Contest-- Who Painted This Dog?-- Dogs in Space


OUR FIRST CONTEST! Pay attention. I said our first contest. Winners receive a scratch on the belly or a pat on the head.

Who painted this dog and what was the painting? Clue is I've seen this painting in the flesh.

Monday, April 5, 2010

The Truth Finally Comes Out-- Dingos Did Not Eat Meryl Streep's Baby-- Dogs in Space


Dingos Deny Eating Meryl Streep's Baby--

After years of bad press just for eating a baby or two, the Dingo Anti-Defamation League has denied ingesting Meryl Streep's baby.

"We may have eaten that other lady's baby, but we have no knowledge of any eating involving a baby of the Award-winning actress. After all, in the 15,000 years of our existence on the Austrailian continent, we could have eaten a lot of actresses' babies, but we have confined our baby-eating to ordinary common babies, not famous ones," said Dog Hogan, spokesdog for the League.

Nicole Kidman, Kylie Minogue, Cate Blanchett, and Olivia Newton John have said that dingos have never eaten any of their children. While it is true that a dingo ate one of Mel Gibson's kids, the child was quickly regurgitated and except for the mess, was left unharmed. Rumor has it that Gibson has so many children that he never really missed the eaten child, besides he was too busy swimming with his girlfriend and putting his foot in his mouth.

In related news, Mel Gibson claims he never ate his foot-- or the foot of any person of Jewish descent.

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Sarah Palin Devoured by Wolves-- Dogs in Space


Sarah Palin Devoured by Wolves

<:AtomicElement>Political Pundits Agree-- She still won't go away.

<:AtomicElement>Sarah Palin was devoured by wolves yesterday. She still continues to make appearances and her political career seems undiminished.

<:AtomicElement>The real news is that soon this blog will be a real website. Info is a bit sketchy still. There will be a name change since Dogs in Space may limit the content and interest. Not that interest is exactly thriving. Nonetheless, we continue to post. Thanks to all for ideas and photos, etc.