When he told me his parents had made a special appointment for him upon their return, I knew what was in store for this admirable young dog. I didn’t have the heart to tell him then, so I wrote him a letter and stuffed it under his doggie bed before I left.

I don’t know whether the letter was for him or really to my younger self.

Anyway, here it is in its full form.

Hello rookie. I hear it’s time for a special visit to the veterinarian’s office. It’s not as bad as some make it out. It’s worse.

I’m not here to scare you, but just give you the straight facts of what to expect. An informed dog is a prepared dog.

The day will start like any other, except that you’ll not have received food or water for the past twelve hours. Go ahead, check your food bowl repeatedly and whine all you want but nothing will be forthcoming from your owners. Hopefully you’ve thought ahead and have a spare bran muffin stuffed in your fur suit.

It won’t be long before you’re owners offer up a ‘ride’. Yes, you’ll jump for joy in hopes of heading to the dog park. What you’ll get instead is a trip to your favorite doctor’s office.

You’ll arrive, jump out of the car and walk towards the office. It will smell better than a French bakery at 8:00am in Paris. Some say it’s as if a mail truck spilled its contents of letters and packages on the lawn, but in reality these are just the messages left by dogs prior to your arrival. Smell them and they tell tales, things like, “I’m so dry I’m running out of ink,” and “I’m dizzy. I need fud,” and “Kat’s suck.”

If you’re up to it, leave your own mark here. Don’t worry, a number two is allowed too. Yeah, leave it right there in front of the big window. Nice.

Pull your owner inside and you’ll be greeted warmly by the staff. They’ll call you by your first name and tell you how cute you are. They have free biscuits at the counter meaning you won’t have to do a trick to get one. If you’re lucky there will be a cage of kittens you can taunt. If there’s a parrot, leave him alone. He’s smarter than you.

It will appear like a big party and you’ll wonder what the big fuss is all about, but that’s exactly what they want you to think. Before you know it you’re whisked away through the swinging doors and into the back.

They’ll shave an arm.
They’ll put a hole in your skin.
They’ll put a tube into it.
They’ll ask you to start counting squirrels in your head.
“One..two…thr..”

Then…nothingness.

“…hey buddy…hey buddy…how you doing? “

You’ll wake from a groggy sleep.

Ice chips will be offered to your dry, chapped lips while you slowly get your wits about you. It will feel like hours pass you by as you lay there, mainly because that’s how long it takes to recover. At some point you’ll smell your owners’ presence. Your name will be called, but before you’re reunited, a most devious device will be wrapped around your neck. Yes, the cone of shame.

Released to your owners’ control you will be driven home. Once there, you’ll find your favorite spot, plop down and start to think about the day you just had.

Did all this transpire? Was it a bad dream? Did someone steal your soul?

No, my friend, your soul is still intact, but they did take something from you. Quite simply, they took your reason for living; your balls were just sent to their forever home.

I hope you have visitation rights.

I should have been so lucky as to have read this letter when I was young. Who knows, I could be packing heat today if I did.

Well, for me, that happened this morning. Let me type what is going through my head right now, “Pants on the ground, pants on the ground, looking like a cat with your pants on the ground.”

Regardless of how much I shake my head, no I don’t have an ear infection, those lyrics just won’t leave.

What’s this got to do with pets, animals or furry creatures? Nothing other than animal cruelty knows no bounds.

To prove my point check out these videos of owners abusing their alleged loved ones.

After seeing this video, I don’t think there’s a court in the world that would convict this cat of murdering her owner in her sleep.

I just found this news article about my latest efforts to save the world from itself.

Bo Hoefinger, the dog best known as the author of Bad To The Bone: Memoir of a Rebel Doggie Blogger, has offered his services to clean up the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico.

As has been clearly documented, dog hair soaks up the oily remnants of drilling platforms gone bad better than sponges, handy wipes, and even wildlife. Quite simply, dog hair is to oil as paper towels are to pee in a living room.

With everyone getting angry at the lack of success in containing the oil spill, Hoefinger decided to do something about it.

“I’m not here to point a paw at anybody. Not British Petroleum, not the government, and not even Charlie, the local tomcat. Maybe it’s because I don’t have any Irish Setter in my bloodlines; you know how much they like to point their paws.

“But when I saw the great work that was being done by the Matter of Trust folks in getting pet hair to help clean up the spill, it spurred me to action. Besides, if I want to be the ambassador for shelter dogs, shouldn’t I help out too?”

And that’s what he offered to do.

“I like swimming. I like the gulf. I’d like to go swimming in the Gulf and soak up some sun, and a bunch of premium grade oil. How could anyone refuse my offer?”

Aides to Portuguese Water Dog in charge Bo Obama, are said to be sniffing through the proposal before making any public comments.

Hoefinger likes his prospects although there is some disagreement among environmentalists as to whether the blogging dog’s idea is a good one.

Mothball Morris from The Cat Litter Disposable said, “The question you have to ask yourself is whether Bo will do more harm than good. Read his book and you’ll find he has a propensity to cause more damage than intended.

“What’s to keep him from peeing in the gulf, or worse, pooping in it? This could lead to two environmental disasters rather than just the one we’re dealing with now.”

Ultimately it comes down to approvals; the first from Bo Obama and the administration, and the second from Bo’s parents.

Bo’s mother main concern is safety and wonders whether it will impede the amount of help he can actually give.

“If he’s to be safe, which means not swimming until an hour after he’s eaten, he’ll never have enough water time to do any good. Bo is a snacker and he needs his Milkbone (the big ones) every hour and a half. You do the math,” she said.

Although a gracious offer, Hoefinger does have concerns.

“I know I’ll be very tired from the swims, but I’m more worried about my hair. The oily, grunge look may work in Seattle, but in my home town the bitches like the Justin Bieber poofy hair look. With Bieber fever infecting the canine community, it will be tough, but I’m committed to the cause.”

Time will tell whether Bo will be allowed to help those humans unable to help themselves. If not, he urges everyone to help the cause and work with the Matter of Trust folks today.

This is Bo, the best dog typist in the world.

No, I don’t play piano like the cat you recently had on your show. Although the word ‘play’ is being generous to what I witnessed.

No, I didn’t save my family from a fire like Buddy, the German Shepherd, you just interviewed, but I did save them from themselves. Where’s my fifteen minutes of fame for that?

No, I didn’t have cancer, unless you count the time my mother rushed me to the vet because she thought my nipples were generous lumps of carcinoma. Yes, boy dogs have nipples, although that was news to my mother.

No, I wasn’t dumped through a library drop slot like Dewey the cat, but I was dumped at a shelter. Who’s life story sounds like it may be more eventful?

And no, I’m not as big as that freakishly oversized rabbit you just had on, although my ego probably is.

So what do I do to be special?  I write. In fact, I’m a published author and the first dog ever to have his memoir published in the non-fiction genre. Not bad for a writer in a fur suit, eh Today peeps?

The book I pawed is BAD TO THE BONE: Memoir Of A Rebel Doggie Blogger. It is dedicated to rescue and shelter workers who make this world a better place, one animal at a time. I donate 10% of my proceeds to help shelter dogs and cats.  I want to become the ambassador for all shelter dogs. Who better to speak about dog adoption than a rescue dog?  Especially, one who is long on words and wit.

What did Marley do to help homeless dogs? Nothing, he just bought himself a bigger dog house and more Snausages. Me? I want to make a difference and want your help to get the word out about pet adoption.

Ann, Matt, Meredith, Big Al, Hoda, Kathie Lee, is anybody listening?  I’m 107 in people years, I don’t have much time left, Oscar the “death cat” is meowing at my door as I type, which either translates into ‘I want my Meow Mix” or the grim reaper is coming to my doggie bed tonight.

So, TODAY SHOW…what’s a dog got to do to get your attention?!!!

C’mon, put me on the show and let’s help some animals in need! I double dog dare ya!

Woof,

Bo

We met back in the early 90’s, December of ‘92 to be exact. I just had a major blowout with my first, somewhat dysfunctional family and decided that it was best for all if I just left. My foster dad gave me a ride to nowhere that ended up at a boarding house in Albany, NY. The place was great, warm with plenty of company, and their cheesy poof biscuits were to die for. On the downside, it was loud and smelly, not unlike me.

Even a lowly pug could smell her coming from miles away. It was Monday, as I recall, and the bells on the door jingled to announce her arrival. She was a beautiful blonde with a quick smile and a big heart. We’d seen this type before; they usually left with one of the pure bred puppies, but something was different about this one. My instincts told me that any canine would be darn lucky to go home with a dame like her, so I made it my top priority to be that hound.

She wandered back to where we lived. Frankly, I was a bit embarrassed about the condition of the place. Some of my cage mates were not very clean and some even took to pooping where they ate. My next cage neighbor’s lack of etiquette was particularly noteworthy as he took to eating kitty snickers (that’s slang for cat poo in the big house) openly. Sure they taste good, but you’re not getting adopted if you’re seen eating one.

As she came closer to my humble accommodations, I tried everything I could to grab her attention. When she finally got to me I made direct eye contact with her, angled my head at a 45 degree tilt and gave her my trademark BoPaw’ reach. As a bonus, my head as a pup was fully-grown, although my body wasn’t. While it would have been abnormal on any other dog, my oversized cranium actually made me cuter.

With the paw in the air and the bobble head turned just so, I stared into her eyes. I could see instantly she wanted me. Needed me. Had to have me. Hey who wouldn’t?

With her finely manicured nails, she reached out and petted me. She was clearly enjoying our encounter. How easy these humans are to manipulate, I thought. Her hands were refreshingly cool and her smell put me in a state of delight. I was in love. I could tell she loved me too.

After a few gushing, “He’s so cute!” comments, she took her hand out of my cage, gave me one last look and proceeded to move on to Pumpkin’s cage.

What?? Move on?! Hey, we just made a connection. You can’t move on. But that’s exactly what she did.

Realizing I was still sitting there with a half-cocked head and a paw in the air, I felt my muzzle glow red hot under my furry face as the other dogs chuckled with delight. After a few minutes I got my bearings back, but by then she had moved through the room, out the door and out of my life.

My hope for a better life was gone as quickly as it had come. A depression enveloped me. The brief glimpse of a superior existence with a loving, caring humanoid was replaced with the stark reality that I may spend the rest of my life at this boarding house. What was once a fun and refreshing place became a dark and daunting cave.

This brush with love, and the subsequent loss of it, had me thinking of ending things in this world. I had heard the stories of the different ways it was accomplished but I knew that if I were going to do it, there was only one way. I knew to whom I could turn.

His given name was Charlemagne Brutus the IV, but he was better known in the house as the Candyman. His studded dog collar betrayed an otherwise noble and tame appearance. C’man slept on the best blankets, drank from the shiniest bowls and rarely took to begging for human food. He was well connected and living life that way.

I approached Candyman during exercise time in the yard. While the other dogs were working on their begging routines, he let on to me that he had a shipment of Hershey’s Dark Chocolate candy bars on the way. For the right price he would let me have them. As the reader clearly knows, as did I, chocolate will kill a canine quicker than a game of “chase the cat” in traffic. Yeah, that quick.

I was desperate, I wanted out of this life and this was the easy path. Death by chocolate, as it is commonly referred to in the restaurant business, was only two Hershey bars away for me. Once ingested, I would soon be patrolling the pearly gates of heaven, looking of course for a place to dig out underneath it. Paradise awaited me.

I knew the price, two greenies and a peanut butter filled kong for each candy bar. The only problem, I had no money and I was unemployed. The price too steep, I resigned myself to the situation at hand. At least death would come seven times faster than it does for others on this lonely, desolate planet. I lay down and quickly dozed off.

<Initiate dream sequence, twitching and yelping> “…and if you want any input into what kind of dog we get, I suggest you get your butt over here after work!” the angry voice yelled. The words came from an angel; the very same angel that had visited the dog reclamation center earlier in the day, although in the dream she seemed a little heavier. (Ed note: dreams add 10 lbs to your frame.) <End dream sequence, twitching and yelping>

When I awoke, the angel was standing over me. Next to her was a very handsome young man. So handsome you might think he was gay, but let me assure the reader he is not. The sexiest man alive looked at me and said, “He’s cute. Let’s get him.”

“I want you to look at this one over here too,” the angel countered.

What? Another dog? She’s betraying me all over again. Ice must surely flow through this one’s veins. Did I mention this all happening during the Christmas season? Was I just like a Douglas Fir being picked up, twirled and then tossed aside while the next Christmas tree gets evaluated?

Fortunately Prince Charming had his wits about him. “No, I like this one, he’s so dopey looking,” clearly referring to me, “We don’t need to look at any of the others. He’s the one.” I didn’t much care for his attitude but his decision-making capability was flawless.

Knowing that once prospective parents take a dog for a ‘test’ walk, they will adopt the pet 98% of the time, Nurse Cratchet saw her opportunity. “Would you like to take him out for a walk, just to make sure you like him?” she offered. She was eager to get rid of me after my failed attempt at unionizing the locals to get better victuals.

I was put on a leash and escorted out the door. Once outside I made a beeline for my potential owner’s car. It was easy to pick out; my sense of smell is incredible. In a show of respect I immediately peed on it. I then proceeded to ignore them as they fawned all over me. Once you have them this far, you show them you don’t want them and they’ll want you more. It’s a sick world, but you have to play by the rules. Remember, don’t hate the player; hate the game.

The ploy worked, they wanted me. With the decision made I pranced back toward my former home to pack my belongings.

“Not so fast my friend,” Cratchet cackled, “We need to make sure you get all your required shots before we can release you to these fine folks.”

What? I can’t leave yet? What a shot in the nads, which by the way were already gone. My new parents were informed to come pick me up later in the week.

As they went to put me back in my cage, I did my best to stop this course of action. With a rope around my neck, I sat down and forced two, it might have been three, of the staff’s goons to drag me across the floor and to my destination. What a sight it must have been. I glanced at my new owners who stared at the commotion with a half smile and a half shocked look that said, “What have we gotten ourselves into?” It’s a look they would share many times in our future together.

Like it or not, the ice princess and her prince were now my parents for life. I couldn’t be happier but I would soon realize the more family members you have the merrier it is.