Meet Jack, on FaceBark

Not having blogged since the disastrous skunk encounter, Jack, our dog of suspicious ancestry, has opted to join the information age by creating his own FaceBark page.  Having failed miserably in his genealogy quest, and succumbing to multiple requests by ardent readers ( well, two, actually ) for updates, we decided to no longer ignore this ground swell of support.

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Jack is fluent in three languages, sadly, none of which are in regular usage (Jaqaru {Peru}, Wu {Tibet}, and Limburgish {Netherlands} *, so it is necessary to limit his narrative to photo captions.  Translations are literal and may be inaccurate.

what’s on your mind ?

dscn4909.jpgAt my first “rally”, guarding a tent from foreign invaders.  The first timer ribbon should have been an RV ( rookie virgin ) badge. Will I be a ‘two timer’ next year? dscn0579.jpgIn Sante Fe, NM.  If you want to play with the big dogs, ya gotta pee in the tall grass.dscn4852.jpgWith Zimba, a hot black lab female from Naperville, IL, after meeting on“House hunting” for a fixer-upper, with the family in Patagonia, AZ 

Upcoming Events

dscn1367.jpgReturning to the rocky shoreline of Lake Huron in the U.P., fresh sniffing, and dreaming of a life at sea.dscn0249.jpgAlthough I can not, or will not, accept donations, you (and that creep Michael Vick) are welcome to donate to my favorite charity.

* information plagiarized from

And for dinner, let’s have canine Italian

The dream was bizarre; having pizza with my 5th grade teacher, Hazel Markwalder, in Las Vegas during a convention for old tool collectors.  By the pool, between bites we talked about Craftsman vs. Snap-On and why she always wore those nylon stockings that came just below the knee. I was 12, she was 57, and the red and blue varicosities on her legs resembled the Interstate Highway System map on page 3 of the 1961 Rand McNally Road Atlas.  She looked and talked and smelled like a chocolate labrador in heat.  

1:30 AM

The dream came to an abrupt end, thankfully, awakened by the insistent barking of my little dog, Jack.  He wants me to believe his urgency to urinate is more immediate than curbing global warming.  Like he’s a TV star in a Flomax commercial.  

 I let him out the side door: within 30 seconds I hear his blood-curdling scream of agony.  He wails at the front door frothing at the mouth, scratching both eyes furiously with his dew claws, having just gone toe-to-toe with a skunk.  He took the full monty and was down for the count ten seconds into the first round.striped_skunk.jpg

I quickly head for the garage, donned in old coveralls, latex gloves, goggles on for eye protection and instruct Lynn to get out tomato juice, the old wives remedy to neutralize the intense aroma.  In her pantry she only stocks Prego Traditional, no mushrooms, no garlic. Mixed 50:50 with water I soak Jack with Italian sauce.   A thirty minute massage and he now smells like an Olive Garden sewage treatment facility.  dscn1693.JPG

 2:15 AM

While I’m gagging, practicing Reiki in the garage, the old wife has searched the internet to discover the new wife modern treatment; equal parts Dawn dishwashing detergent, baking soda, and hydrogen peroxide.  We have all three, how lucky is that ?  After rinsing out the Prego, I realize I won’t be having pasta for a long, long time.  I’m now soaking him in our homemade chemical spill which, to my astonishment, actually seems to be effective.  dscn1697.JPG

 3:30 AM

The final rinse and I’m now shampooing skunk-doggie with Pert Plus Shampoo, + aloe, + conditioner, in the popular ocean breeze fragrance. Mapquest, however, reminds me that we are on the north shore of Lake Huron, a 1000 miles from the Atlantic shore.

Towel dried he at last begins to act and smell normal.  I prepare a temporary bed for him in the garage, he curls up and drifts into the arms of Morpheus.

5:00 AM

Neither Lynn nor I can sleep, the stench penetrating into our bedroom through a wall of 12″ thick logs. The scene of the TKO was under our front porch so we retreat to the old beachhouse for early morning coffee.  The smell lingers on, a combination of a skunky Heineken, butyric acid (the most foul smelling of all the organic acids), and Miss Markwalder’s breath.    dscn1629.JPG  

On a rare day, a bad dream is better than the good life.    

Testicle Justice

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.dscn0354.JPGAt 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.dscn0332.JPGAt 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.250px-fire_ants02.jpgStartled 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.


P.O. Box 542

Patagonia, Az 85624