From the Jack dogblog, the title may not be appropriate on this, a family oriented website. However, it is not nearly as offensive as the widely proclaimed monologues featuring a prominent but often well disguised female body part.Here then is the second essay from our dog, Jack, on his survival trial in the great southwest. For those of you who do not recollect, his most recent entry ended as follows:
My next column will be about meeting, up close and personal, a large extended family of fire ants and how it made me re-think the judicial process. In the interim, consider sending some gourmet dog treats my way. I’ll forward my p.o. box number, privately, on request. JACK
Sadly, I must report that my last column resulted in not a single offer for a dog treat. No milkbone, no jerked meat twisties from Ol’ Roy, no dried cheeto flavored porcine ears, nada. The level of my disappointment is palpable as it is evident that you, yes, you, don’t understand a major principle in the animal world: no treats, no essays.I recently left New Mexico with a painful memory. While in a junkyard looking at old cars I elected to urinate too close to a teddy bear cholla. From the Airstream Life Tour of America here is a fine example, (click on the purple underline) It took the bossman 30 minutes to remove all spines from my groin area, all the while under the spectre of this sign.At the time, death seemed the more pleasurable option. Remember, it was his bright idea to look at the 1953 Buick Roadmaster.Normally, I read and obey the signs posted. The following example, from a rest area in rural Missouri, illustrates how my favorite chew toy ( the gay snowman) and I have enough sense to stay away from a sewage treatment facility.At the moment, I am now spending the winter in my Patagonia, Az., home, a small adobe with a lovely fenced in back yard….a place where I can nap for hours, dream about chasing squirrels, and erase the memory of the New Mexico trauma. However, three weeks ago, while dozing in the arms of the mythical goddess Morpheus, the same tender groin area was assaulted by an army of fire ants.Startled by the burning sensation in that area which I deem to be quite private, my first inclination after howling like that guy in the Edvard Meunch painting, was to begin licking the tender area. Savagely. Let me tell you that dozens of live ants, swallowed, are the equivalent of three tablespoons of chili powder. Now I was burning at both ends. Emergency help was needed but my dyslexic handler dialed 119 instead of 911. Moron.Ultimately a decision had to be made:(A) Have him spray my entire gorgeous jet black exterior with a can of that toxic slime in an aerosol, the stuff that advertises “it kills them daid”or,(B) Do nothing and let me suffer until the pain and misery subside.Hence, the title chosen expresses the gravity of the need for a fire ant landmark decision;
Woe vs. Raid
Okay, groan if you like, but be reminded that this stuff is worth what you pay for it.