Starring Beckham and introducing Fenway as “The Cat”

Cranking up the tunes
‘Til the windows break
Feeding chocolate to the dog
Jumping on the couch
‘Til the feathers all come out
While our parents are on Fire Island

-Fire Island
Fountains of Wayne

Under normal circumstances I would probably be taking Fenway to work with me for the next few weeks ( a lovely option except that everyone wants to keep taking him out of his crate and play with him which isn’t exactly… what’s the word: productive) however he seems smarter than the average dog, and please allow me to qualify that by saying that he appears to be smarter than Satchmo and Beckham who, despite their charms, aren’t exactly candidates for Doggy Mensa if you know what I mean. On the plus side, Satchmo and Beckham have been mentoring Fenway on the Places Where We Pee and Poo and this has, so far, worked out splendidly. Because we are crate-training Fenway at night (since we have reached maximum occupancy on the bed during normal human sleeping hours) we decided that we could crate him when I left for work this morning and then I would come back around noonish, release the beast, take him for a walk, and then give him free reign until one of us got home in the evening. Thus, Sunday was spent puppy-proofing the house and it is truly amazing what kind of doggy disaster scenarios can go through your mind… even in a household without guns.

Noon arrives at the usual time (around twelvish) and I found him quite happy and content, lazing away in his minimum security palatial wire palace. Unfortunately a walk fails to achieve the proper result, butt-wise, and, since I did have to get back to work , I resigned myself to the prospect of puppy landmines upon my return (although my initial plan was to linger at work long enough and allow the delightful and understanding mrs tbogg to be the first to discover Fenway’s rich bounty. But I’m a better person than that. No. Really. I am).

Fortunately Fenway apparently tightened up his sphincter like Michelle Malkin driving by a Taco Bell, and all I came home to was this:

Please notice that someone “hit the pad” at the right. Goooood boy.

No broken bottles, holes in the wall, cigarette burns in the carpet, cars in the swimming pool, truckloads of SWAT teams accompanied by local news helicopters slowly circling overhead, or dead Mormon missionaries on the porch. So basically, a regular Monday just like yours… unless you live in a frat house in which case one, if not all, of the above may apply.

This afternoon I also attempted the Three Dogs On Leashes Each With His Own Olfactory Agenda walk (which carries a degree of difficulty that has been known to start with below-the-knee leash-bondage and culminates in a flailing fall/broken hip/pneumonia/and death). I managed to pull it off safely and my understanding is that the neighbors gave me a 9.4, 9.6, 9.5 and a 8.9 from the goddamn Romanian neighbors.

Anyway, here’s your puppy picture to hold you over until Thursday….unless that broken hip/death thing happens in which case you’re on your own

Death comes on a walk with big floppy feet

(Authors note: this post is infinitely preferable to the McArdle post I had been working on on. Trust me on this one)