Bo-Bo Knows the Idiocy of Fashion

Bo-Bo is all about functional fashion. His year-round fur aside, he was perfectly happy with a simple collar in classic black (I was the sucker that upgraded him to a more handsome design). He doesn't care that when the winter hits he'll be wrapped up in a coat that makes him look like a stained glass window (it was the only one that would fit him). And even though Petco tries to tempt him with the latest and greatest in doggie chews, Bo always comes back to his as-of-late-disemboweled monkey we gave him on day one. He's quite sentimental that way.

Bo-Bo knows the idiocy of fashion, which makes him smarter than half the women in the world. Hear me out! Somebody--designers or magazine editors or some combination of both--decides what's in for the season and lemmings with more money than sense go out and buy it. I have a fashion-conscious friend who's always trying to tell me that certain things I like aren't "in."

Well, screw that! If I like something, I'm wearing it. You think I'm gonna retire all my peasants skirts when they finally go "out." Not even hardly. And really, just because somebody says it's fashionable to wear big shirts with a belt around them doesn't mean it looks anything but idiotic. No white after labor day? Fascism! Boots in the fall and winter only? Tell that to the cowboy boot wearing population!

Need further proof fashion is insane? Ever try walking the beach in those ankle socks eveybody's wearing now? They slip off of your ankle (because by design there's NOTHING to hold them there) and migrate to just beneath your heel. Because walking on the beach is SO much better when you're walking on a wad of cotton.

And no, it didn't bother me at all that my preference for walking the beach in crew socks led to a sock line during the height of sandal season. Oh, the horror! Believe me, the kind of people who care about my sock line aren't the kind of people I want to bother with. Bo-Bo--who once gnawed off the booties I put on him in a lame attempt to protect the pads of his feet from rock salt--agrees.

Bo-Bo Knows Recovery

The squirts. The runs. The trots. The shits. Whatever your favorite euphemism for diarrhea, Bo-Bo has it. Every hour since midnight. Sure, new parents get kept up half the night, but at least they don't have to take their babies outside and whine at them to just poop already.

We called the vet. The tech at reception told us to collect a sample. We told the tech said sample was liquid. Very liquid. Tech assured us even a smear would do. We collected a sample. Scratch that. I collected a sample. Bo yelped as he went, as if to say, "the burning, oh the burning!"

I took the sample to the vet. Ever drive in a car with a plastic bag smeared with poo? Don't. The tech tested the smear for, I don't know exactly, but it came up negative. I drove Bo home. Bo's pooping went from chocolate fountain to just plain fountain. Shitting water is never a good sign. Neither is barfing bright yellow. I called the tech; the tech called Bo and me straight back into the office.

Injection of antibiotic. Pills. Food so expensive I took out a second mortgage. Fluids administered by IV. Did you know pooches get their fluids dumped under the skin? The effect is remarkably Quasimodo. Tech swore the fluids would be absorbed in an hour. And, although Bo was not to eat again until tomorrow, he needed more antibiotic tonight. Because there's nothing so fun as shoving a pill down a starving pooch's throat.

Bo retaliated by crapping in the house while I tutored. I'm pretty sure it was the aforementioned shits that caused this, though there's an off chance Bo's little gift might have been a critical response to the little song I sang to him while we waited in the vet's office (to the tune of the Oscar Meyer wiener theme song):

My Bo-Bo has a first name
It's B-O-dash-B-O
My Bo-Bo has a second name
It's G-O-T-2-go

He'd like to stay out all the day
And if you asked me why I'd say
Cause Bo-Bo has the shits today
And that is really not O-K.

In my defense, I got nothing but interrupted sleep last night. And when you think about it, who's fault was that?

Bo-Bo Knows Barks are Worse Than Bites

If Bo-Bo were a kid, he'd be the boy raking in candy from strangers. He'd be the first to jump into the pick-up for a ride the rest of the way to school, the one who dives right into the skeevy van for an up-close look at those puppies the nice man promised were there.

Bo-Bo has done busted his radar for stranger danger. In Bo's addled brain, every dog we meet while walking's a potential friend, and never mind the owner straining to keep her 140-pound bear of a dog from launching at us; never mind that this little pug's doing his best impersonation of a snarling beastie. Bo-Bo loves--or at least wants the chance to love--everybody! His greet-the-world-with-open-paws approach is decidedly not cool when we're up against the kind of dog whose prime directive is collecting a piece of anything that crosses his path, but it does have its advantages against the loudmouths on our walking route. Oliver the howling, barking, demon Beagle, I'm looking at you!

Every day we walk by Oliver's house, Oliver summons a deep, hellish, howling bark. He jams his head betweent the posts of the fence when he can, but mostly he follows us, hollering and lunging, with nothing but a bit of white picket between him and Bo-Bo...and me. Now I'll admit it: I jump every time Oliver's hound-o-hell greeting shakes me from my thinks, but Bo just galumphs along, mouth open in his can-you-believe-I-get-to-walk smile. Oh, his ears may perk up, and on days when Oliver's voice is particularly strong, Bo may take a quick stutter step into the street. But mostly Bo-Bo registers Oliver's complaint with the classic ignore-him-and-he'll-go-away stance.

Bo's take on life is devilishly simple, right? Just ignore everything that doesn't matter and bop along with your day. Tell me, how is it that a dog who can't figure out when there's food in his dish can be so very wise?

What if I dealt with those dogs barking in my brain the same way Bo deals with the Beazulbulb Beagle that snarls at him ? What if I just ignored the fear growling around the back of my brain and--now here's a novel thought--wrote the damn end of my book already?

What. What the? Bad boy, Bo! Bad...? 3r8q dfd*&&*(fdafdj90

Bo-Bo here. Had to take over. Couldn't stand it. If my racing homeys talked about running as much as mommy talks about writing they'd have been shot. Well, maybe not shot, but same same. You gets my meaning. Racers race. Writers write. You gots five scenes to the end? Writes them, okay? I didn't win seven races by jumping out of the box and examining the track ahead. I ran like a mother lover. Once I even cutted off the big dog. You gots to take risks, okay? So get onto that stupid clicky thing that like so much and run your damn race already, okay?

Oh and while I'm here, I wanted to tells you that little rhyme you have when you're eating something yummers and I ain't getting any? You know: Nothing for you, Disco Stu? I know you're proud of it, but it ain't cool.

So anyways, type alright. One, two, three: theeeeeeeerrrrrrreeeee gooooooooeeeeess cliiiiiiiiickyyyyyy! Get it? There goes clicky instead of there goes swifty. Aw, forget it. Just writes already, OK? Just not so much you skimp on my walkseses.

Bo-Bo Knows Bad Poetry

So many of you know that when a special occasion intersects with a certain brand of Cathy punchiness, you're apt to get a limerick in your (birthday, retirement, thank-you) card. This may seem like harmless goofy fun, but it's actually a sickness. I offer my March 7 "Bo-Bo Knows Weird Al Yankovic" post as exhibit one.

When Mike and I went to a wedding last month, we sent Bo to doggy jail. Oh, it's not much of a prison. The space is a big warehouse. There are no cages. Potential guests are screened to make sure mostly sane pooches like Bo don't have to deal with crazy, violent, idiotic dogs (so chiuahuas, Jack Russel terriers, and that demon Beagle who lives three doors down need not apply). This outfit is probably about as close to doggy nirvana as Bo's gonna get.

That is, until we have the colossal gall to abandon him there.

To retaliate, Bo does what any self-respecting, submissive sissy must do in this situation: he curls up in a ball for two days and doesn't pay any attention to us. His antics inspired the latest Cathy Canine romp to the tune of one of my favorite Elvis rockabilly songs, "Blue Moon of Kentucky." I'm imbedding the music video below for those who aren't familiar with the tune; Bo's lyrics follow.

Bo-Bo of Our Condo
(With apologies to Bill Monroe)

Bo-Bo! Bo-Bo! Bo-Bo pouts the day away.
Bo-Bo pouts all through the day;
'cause he thinks that'll make us stay
Bo-Bo pouts through the day!

I said Bo-Bo of our condo keeps on pouting.
Pouts on because we left him overnight.
I said Bo-Bo of our condo keeps on pouting.
Pouts on until his mama makes things right.

On a lonely Friday!
Mom went away!
Slipped through the door!
Orphaned forever more.*

Bo-Bo of our condo keeps on pouting.
Pouts on because we left him overnight.
Bo-Bo of our condo keeps on pouting.
Pouts on until his mama makes things right.

If the preceding doesn't convince you that my phonetic tinkering's a sickness, know this: I've moved on to bigger phonetic challenges. Behold my first (and likely my last) villanelle (this is the poetry form made famous with "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" by Dylan Thomas) :

The Critic

On days like this the sky's a burden, too.
Air pushes, pushes down until I'm small.
I choose to hold it up for me, for you.

It's not clear why they call this feeling blue.
My busy, cluttered mind slows to a crawl.
On days like this the sky's a burden, too.

The doubt that was a seed took root and grew
into a beast that hides all but his growl.
I choose to hold him off for me, for you.

My thoughts turn to a mottled, ugly stew;
the beast and reason ready for a brawl.
On days like this the sky's a burden, too.

The critic arms himself and starts to spew.**
Protect the dreams you don't want him to maul.
I choose to hold him off for me, for you.

And though I know the beastly barks aren't true,
they clog like dirt in motors and I stall.
On days like this the sky's a burden, too.
I choose to hold it up for me, for you.

Bo just grunted and rolled onto his side. That's Bo-nglish for "why don't you call this post Bo-Bo Knows Bad Poetry's No Way To Finish A Novel." I whole-heartedly agree. So I'll close with my Bo-inspired Haiku:

Bad poems are a
painful procrastination;
someone stop me now.

* The first draft of this line read "Mom's a dirty whore." I've decided the revision's more in keeping with Bo's character.

** This rhyme caused my husband physical pain.

***Alternate title: "Take THAT Writer's Block!"