Cosmic Cleanliness

Some of you might have noticed my recent absence. If you did, then I guess this ties in nicely with this week’s topic. Why dogs disappear. One minute you’re outside hiking with your pooch. The next nanosecond they’re gone. Frantically, you spin your cranium around and around, like some lighthouse beacon, searching for your mutt while uttering under your breath unrealistic desires to kill them once they’re found. Ever wonder about this fantastic canine cloaking phenomenon?

I can tell you my recent blogging hiatus wasn’t a quick peek into some wormhole in search of my usual traveling companion, Crazy Albert. Nope, Herr Albert’s right here playing shuffleboard with his photons. And my disappearance was just an illusion. You see, I was cloaked just like the dog you were frantically searching to find. Then “poof” we’re back, wagging our tails despite the admonishments you feel compelled to slather upon us. While you might be inclined to chalk up our disappearance to some obstruction that blocked your visual connection, the reality is: we canines are blessed with a cloaking device far superior to those ever employed by either Hans Solo or Captain Kirk.

So what’s our secret? Well, a while ago I helped the Big Guy write a book. In it, we talked about this very subject. I don’t think he’d mind too much if I shared a little bit of it with you folks. Here goes…..

…..One of the special qualities that make canines so utterly unique is our ability to take ordinary hair protein and transform it into one of the wonders of the cosmos. Our secret formula is poop mousse. Pretty much any poop will do. Our default mousse is usually compiled by our equine pals but to achieve the magical hair properties that defy the laws of science, a good shellac of wild animal poop mousse will do nicely. When I really wanted to make a lasting impression on our alpha leader I would apply my secret formula just before we were due to jump into the truck. This was particularly true when there were neither towels nor water to clean either one of us. My antics actually were my secret method of manipulating the Big Guy into transporting me to the nearest body of water for a bout of swimming. My mousse poop conditioner worked every time.

Near Fatal Shampooing

Re-booting My Canine Superpowers

I’d have to admit that with all of our canine super powers we have a vulnerable weakness that two-legged pack members employ regularly with kryptonite effectiveness. Commonly it’s referred to as soap.

 There were times when I had labored an entire afternoon, embedding every pore of my skin with the pungent fragrance of nature’s dung, only to become hosed then lathered with some kind of peach or rose smelling shampoo. Like Superman, I would be helplessly immobilized by fruit reeking suds. Both wet and bedraggled all my secret manipulation attributes would be disempowered by a smelly container of cleansing stuff.

As with any good comic book super hero, eventually the sudsy power draining poison would be hosed off. Instantly, my strength would begin to return. I would compress my internal forces and vibrate from head to tail with such oscillating ferocity as to rid myself of any remaining shampoo. Usually my shaking efforts not only succeeded in my throwing off any remainder of the smell-good bondage but it also had the effect in driving any two-legged pack members scurrying for cover. The towel massage thing was also helpful in neutralizing the abhorrent, crippling effect of petal bouquets.

When I generated moaning sounds during the toweling ritual this was always an indicator my supernatural powers were rapidly returning. Usually when they’d tire of drying my coat I’d trot over to the nearest lawn or exposed dirt and drop ‘n roll in an effort to reboot my dog smell. Convinced that I had survived my near fatal shampooing, I would march off, determined to get reacquainted with the scents of nature. I’m not entirely sure but I remember the Big Guy’s young son also suffered from a similar immobilizing fear that application of soap to the dirt covered lad was analogous to mixing vinegar with water….

So the next time you go through an experience of being frustrated with your four-legged “Best Friend” disappearance, consider a little Canine Cosmic Cleaning. It does wonders in neutralizing our cloaking device. But be forewarned, we have an amazing ability to re-boot our stealthy capabilities. Just give our noses a couple of minutes to ferret out some poop. Then, “poof” we’ll be gone again.

That’s it for this edition from the Cosmic Scuttlebutt. You can catch more of my Dodger insights (thoughts from a magnificent, semi-humble dog that lived with a pack of humans) by getting a hold of your copy of When Dogs Dance with Dinosaurs. Until next time, take care.−Dodger

Consciouness's Quandary

I believe! What do ya think; a statement that’s mighty powerful? Well, perhaps just a tad. There’s this dude named Descartes, whose spirit is floating around out here who made this big philosophical proclamation, I think; therefore I am. Rational thoughts, at least in theory, are supposed to separate us from the irrational ones of lunatics. I think; therefore I am. Really? Is this the consciousness factor that makes you and me uniquely different from the Pet Rock that someone gave you back in the 70’s?

Do creatures blessed with the most miniscule ability to think possess some rudimentary sense of self-awareness? Does that wormy-like critter squirming beneath the Pet Rock, which decades earlier you tossed out in the yard, have what scientists call a brain? Now admittedly, it doesn’t possess those enviable opposable thumbs or a saintly massive frontal cortex but it does own a basic neuro-network. While munching away on dirt, is the little guy self-aware? Is he thinkin’; therefore he is?

So what the hell is Consciousness? Here I am floatin’ around in space with my energy particles spread across the universe contemplating the essence of earthly existence and trying to figure out more than just the meaning of navel lint. Is thinking the factor that makes us have a sense of consciousness? Is it what defines our awareness? Okay, if that’s true, then, tell me how it is you know you love your child? Or you love your spouse? Or your incredibly handsome dog, or even your God? Can you prove it? Do you think it and therefore you are? Or is it because you believe?

Believing is a gut feeling, an emotional reaction, a sense of just knowing. While beliefs are open to widely varying interpretations and influences, believing, especially if it occupies a space within our hearts, extends us beyond the rational answers or even the irrational ones our thinking brains gives us.

Our earthly forms are composed of elements and matter that each of us shares. But each of you knows that you are indeed YOU. Perhaps some of us do that better than others. But there is certainly something that makes us different than the mass of granite that was your Pet Rock. Then what is your definition of consciousness?  Is it the essence of your Soul? Is the distillation of all your memories? Or perhaps it’s the cumulative memories of all things genetically imbedded in your DNA and passed on from generation to generation.

From my galactic perspective, I’m feeling the embodiment we call our soul is our conscious knowing we can believe. We can possess, on the faith that it is what is real for us, that which is a truth even without it possessing any proof. We can love another and we can believe it! We are consciously aware. We believe: therefore we are! And so are you.

Thanks for tuning in this week. You folks take care and rest assured I’m seeing all of you just as sure as those twinkling little stars are pounding you with their photons.-Dodger

Universal Stupidity

Wow! What a ride. Last week Herr Einstein and I headed off across the galaxy in search of the vastly important answer to the vital question−Where does navel lint come from? Somewhere near Andromeda, I lost Albert as the cosmic wind blew his spirit off course. However while soloing across the vastness of space, I discovered something equally important.

There’s a fabric that runs throughout the cosmos, a force that unites all things, a commonality that makes all of us connected. My discovery is: we are all universally, at one time or another, stupid. Yup! Every one of us has in our possession, moments of extraordinary lapse in intellectual perfection. Even that iconic dude, the one full of gravitational principles, Sir Isaacs Newton, had his “Whoopee cushion” moments.

Here, I’ll use me as an example. I can recall one particularly forgettable moment while I was alive on Mother Earth, when the Big Guy caught me with the “smokin’ gun”. He had some peculiar requirement that I was supposed to leave the Almond Roca treats in the litter box where our pack’s cats had made their deposits. One, less than brilliant, moment of personal clarity, I sauntered up the stairs to the astonishment of my pack possessing the lid to the litter box dangling around my neck like some large collar adornment. See, Stupidity! I’ll admit it. Not one of my more creative endeavors. And I’m here to tell you, there were consequences.

My celestial discovery is that this is a collective phenomenon. We all have our flashes of utter absurdity. This common thread that weaves its connection, bonding us beyond our whizzin’ electrons, is just another example of how similar we all are. None of us is immune. We are related, connected through our moments of intellectual density.

Of course, I’d be remiss if I didn’t share the other half of my cosmic discovery. What is one supposed to do with their inevitable possession of asinine experiences? You are now going to receive Dodger’s heavenly advice for helping all of us deal with this galactic inane behavior.



The Big Guy at a pinnacle momment of idocy.
Photo courtesy of Chase Hartzell



Foremost, take comfort you are not alone in the universe. All of you have, at one point or another, worn an equivalent hat from the top of a litter box. The next effective tool for surviving with your moments of personal lacking is one of self-forgiveness. While reflection and learning from our mistakes is beneficial, keeping one’s self in the present and not dwelling spectacularly in the past is this canine’s way of obtaining joy. In other words, have a short memory and savor what new challenges will cross your path. Yah see, in the future you will be given plenty of opportunities to become reacquainted with your stupidity, so why dwell. Besides laughter at one’s self is, well, just damn therapeutic.

There’s a goal in all of my cosmic dribble. I sense that we are much more connected that we like to acknowledge. The separateness we seek to feel unique drives us apart and creates the undesirable consequence of intolerance. Sound stupid, perhaps. But then again we all have it.

That’s it from this segment of Dodger’s Dribble. Until next time, may all your belly button lint turn to gold dust and all of your idiocy twinklings become spectacularly brief. Herr Einstein, where are you? Albert? Albertttttttt?-Dodger

The Theory of Relativity

After a week flittering around the galaxy, I caught up with my bud, Albert. That’s the poster guy who used to have wacky hair and a Nobel certificate.  He and I were talking over some of his Commandment-like theories when I had my own revelation: Some relatives ought to be chain-sawed off the family tree.

Now as a deceased pack member, I never really spent much time with my littermates. I was whisked away from them at the ripe old age of 6 weeks to join up with another pack. Not much time to get connected or build a history with my siblings. However, my pack members were my surrogate relatives. Some of them were endearing and essential. Then there were those who, well, let’s just say they were memorable.

While kibitzing with Herr Einstein, I mentioned I thought it probably had a lot to do with his notion of Probability. According to physics principles, we’re a mass of energetic particles occupying some space at some time. So really, Probability Theory is just a big Maybe. That’s my point. Some of our relatives are really just a Maybe.

According to one of my close family members, their family tree closely resembled the genealogy of cooked Top Ramen noodles. Inbreeding was rampant with their family’s genetic probability rivaling any poodle breeders (Nothin’ against my poodle brethren).



Grandpa Hennessey



As a Maybe example, let’s take a look at my Grandpa. Now I’ll admit the dude had a suave surname. The Big Guy (my alpha leader) christened him, Hennessey after some amber colored libation he found likable. But Grandpa on more than one occasion tried to kill me. Yup, grandparents, indeed, do eat their young, or in my case, enticing me a time or two in trying to get acquainted with the reflective properties of speeding car chrome bumpers. Grand old Grandpa would cajole me with the possibility of catching some recently grazing deer, only to lure me towards the crosshairs of a traffic-rich thoroughfare.

So what’s the point of all this dribble? No it’s not, “You choose your friends but you can’t choose your family.” That clique, although applicable is not the point. The cosmic message is: some of your relatives aren’t going to become your golfing buddies or knitting partners, but they have a reasonable Probability of enlightening you on how you don’t want to do life. See, no soul is wasted, even those families whose gene pools could use a little more chlorine (another cliques I really like). And that’s Dodger’s Theory of Relativity!

That’s it from the cosmos. Me and Al are off to find out the answer to another crucial galactic question, what’s the meaning of navel lint. See ya next time.-Dodger

Dog Drool

Dog drool, now that's something that most of you have been salivating to know more about. Okay, I'm sure this seems like a topic lacking in overall cosmic significance for my first communique with humanity. But this spontaneous viscous material has more relevance to your life than you might be giving adequate attention. Drool is visual. It immediately stimulates emotions in others. It may even be on par with the emotional consequence of seeing elderly people naked. It's creates, without much needed assistance, a visceral response. Generally, what I heard throughout my entire tenure on earth was "Yuck!" Usually repeated in a barrage of exclamations from my pack members hoping that one of their other numbers would be cleaning the stuff up.

For most canines it is your immediate visual cue that we're thinkin' about food. Not always, though. Sometimes, especially if you're a Newfoundland, the stuff just leaks out continuously. No kidding, those dudes could definitely use a lip tuck. I once overheard a story told to my Big Guy (my alpha pack leader) about another pet owner that had Newfoundland drool on the ceiling over their two-story spiral staircase. "Yuck!" Is that really possible?

I'm telling you those dudes at corporate R & D departments are actively researching on how dog drool can be incorporated in helping to save our planet. So, the new green idea their looking into is how harvesting Dog Drool can be utilized as natural engine lubricant to reduce our dependence on foreign oil. I think it would only take maybe 10 or 15 Newfoundlands and we could be totally green in this regard. Just think what revenues their pet owners would reap.

Actually, my belief is that those folks that make paper towels conspired to mutate the saliva dog gene to create copious amounts of Dog Drool as a method of peaking stockholders' dividends. Most dog owners have a less than gentle manner when it comes to wiping drool from the corners of our lips. Yet, I have to admit that having one of those clear slimy shoelaces hanging down, nearly in contact with the floor, would usually spur one of my family members to a none-to-gentle facial cleaning to this once earthly inhabitant.

Obviously your question to this oh-so-wise cosmic entity is how do you stop this dog stuff from gushing like the flood waters of the Mississippi. My honest answer to your desperate question is, you don't. It's like flatulence. You're gonna have both if you're a dog owner whether you wanted it or not. Good thing we have such soulful brown eyes to melt you with, otherwise you might not ever let us enter your den to lick the leftover stuff off your fingers.

Okay, gotta go, there's some new comet blasting across a neighboring galaxy that I want to check out and get there before Albert or Isaac beats me to it.-Dodger