Monday, September 26, 2011

Doggy humor: A real life family feud

By Hobo Hudson

I know you all remember the great TV show called “Family Feud” of long ago when you all rushed to turn on your TV to catch the latest episode. Well, I have had the pleasure of witnessing a real life family feud in my household, where I eagerly rush to the glass door to witness the latest episode whenever Mom goes onto our porch to attend to my kitty sisters.

The feud started about four years ago when Dad had an important business appointment and was unable to take Pogo, aka the Wonder Cat, to her annual vet’s appointment to make sure she was a real cat.

As usual, Dad had put Pogo into her carrier but then, Mom delivered her to the vet’s office where Pogo claimed she was subjected to various indignities that Dad would not have allowed. Ever since that incident, every time Mom goes onto the porch to clean the kitties’ litter boxes or the floor and bends over—WHACK—right on her rear end. Instantly, Mom spins around and chases Pogo until she finds a hiding place where Mom can’t find her. Mom then puts her hands on her hips and exclaims, “That darn cat, I wonder why I keep her,” hence her nickname of “The wonder cat.”

There are naturally two sides to every story and, being impartial, I’ll present both sides for you to judge.

Pogo: Dad told me of the impending vet’s appointment, and I wasn’t concerned since Dad always took me and protected me during the visit, telling me that if they did anything I didn’t like that he would scratch them for me so I wouldn’t ruin my beautiful nail manicure. I had just done my nails, trimming, buffing and applying fresh nail polish when Dad came to put me in my carrier. You can imagine my surprise when Mom picked up my carrier, drove with me to the vet and dumped me on a table in the vet’s office. Needless to say, the visit did not go at all well. When I arrived back home, my beautiful nail treatment was in shambles. There were lots on nicks in the nail polish; bits of human skin under the nails and my paws were bloody up to the wrist. It took me  three days to repair all the damage.

Mom: I was just doing Pogo a favor because I didn’t want Pogo to have to cancel her appointment, postponing it for a couple of weeks and making her have to do a completely new manicure prior to the appointment. The sign in the vet’s office said to let the vet’s staff restrain pets during the examination, so none of Pogo’s misfortune was my fault.

Since that visit to the vet, a state of war has existed in our household with Pogo vowing there will never be peace because she is very unforgiving and has a very long memory, and Mom vowing that she will continue to keep the porch clean whether Pogo likes it or not, and one cat will not deter her from her sworn duties.

Now what do you think? Isn’t this better than watching a rerun of the old human show?

Monday, September 12, 2011

Doggy humor: Disaster at Towering Paper Mountain

By Hobo Hudson

Dear friends. I thought I’d better give you a bark with the inside story of last night’s disaster because I’m sure that you have already heard about it on the news and are curious as to what happened.

I traced the roots of this disaster back about 25 years to the time Mom and Dad built their dream house here in Ruskin. Dad was sitting in his recliner reading the morning paper when he saw an article he wanted to keep for future reference. Instead of clipping the article right away, he simply laid the newspaper on the floor with the idea of clipping the article later and putting it into his desk drawer. Needless to say, he never got around to following up on it.

As time went by, Dad found more and more articles he wanted to save and simply stacked the newspapers containing those articles on top of each other, building a cluttered pile. He soon got too busy to read all the stories in the newspaper he wanted to read every day and stacked the unread sections onto the pile also. When the mountain of newspapers grew to touch the ceiling, Dad started a new pile beside the first one and let it continue to grow.

By the time Dad had accumulated four newspaper piles, Mom put her foot down and would not allow Dad to start yet another one. Dad, being stubborn and set in his ways, dragged out his chain saw and cut a hole through the ceiling and the roof and kept on stacking newspapers by climbing a ladder outside the house and dropping the papers through the hole onto the top of the existing piles.

Soon, the newspaper piles grew so high above the house that Dad couldn’t throw far enough into the air to reach the top. Determined to keep the upper hand on the situation, Dad came up with the idea of devising an air cannon. He would stuff the newspapers into the cannon’s mouth, charge the cannon with compressed air and pull the trigger. Whoosh! The papers would fly to the top of one of the piles.

The first time I saw the towering piles of newspapers from the outside, clouds had obscured their top, and I had no idea how tall they were. However, on one clear day, I saw snow on the top and knew they had to be very high to have a cover of snow here in Florida. Mom kept warning me not to sleep near the piles when taking my naps in the living room because of the avalanche danger, but after six years, I had grown a bit complacent and had begun to sleep between the base of the mountain of newspapers and Dad’s chair.

Last night, it happened. I woke to a crushing weight on my body and couldn’t even move a toe. I heard fragments of cries which sounded like, “Where is he? Not under this chaotic wreckage. There’s no way any dog could have survived.” Then I heard a distant voice calling my name over and over again.

I mustered what breath I could and let out a weak yip. Luckily, Dad heard it and instantly, I felt air coming my way and weight lifted off my body as Dad frenziedly began digging me out of my papery grave.

When he finally got me out, I must have been unconscious because I woke to a voice saying, “Breathe, Hobo, breathe.”  When I began breathing on my own, someone removed the oxygen mask and another one stopped the chest compressions, and I was soon able to sit up and sip a few swallows of water. However, right now, I am still very sore, and I will have to spend a few days in the hospital for observation just to be sure I have no broken ribs.

Dad brought me my laptop this morning, so I can stay in communication with all my friends. He told me he has hired two dump trucks and a pay loader to haul off all the papers and a building contractor to repair the roof and ceiling afterward. I think my happy home will be back to normal in a few weeks until Dad gets another bright idea.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Doggy humor: The new employee

By Hobo Hudson

I had been toying with the idea of hiring a new employee because my four cat sisters who are also my employees had been complaining that they were getting too old to work full time anymore. I wasn’t really paying much attention to finding additional help since my sisters’ working “full time” meant being on the job 10 minutes per hour while spending the other 50 minutes lolling in the sun, taking baths or just watching the squirrels and birds outside.

Things changed last Tuesday when I received an excellent job application and resume from a male cat by e-mail, and I barked at Mom and Dad that I wanted to go interview the young fellow. We all piled into Dad’s car and off we went. After we arrived at the young fellow’s motel room and I met the fellow, I could tell in an instant that he would make a great employee. Dragging my paws because I was still a little hesitant about hiring due to the state of our economy, I told him to keep looking for work and job offers until Wednesday evening and, if he hadn’t found anything, I would hire him.

He called late Wednesday afternoon and meowed that he hadn’t even had a return call from all the resumes he had sent out. I reassured him about our agreement and told him to consider himself hired and that we would pick him up Thursday morning for a little pre-employment physical.

Bright and early Thursday morning, Dad, Mom and I drove back to the motel where the young fellow had been staying. With our help, he checked out of his room and accompanied us to my doctor’s office for a quick blood test to make sure he didn’t have HIV or leukemia, which he didn’t have, of course. We then took him with us to our home where I led him onto the porch and explained his duties. He would have to catch bugs, mice and any other critters that might dare to venture onto the porch and also to keep Mom and Dad amused by chasing toys and performing other antics to make them smile. He was also to keep his eyes on our sundeck to make sure none of the birds or squirrels did anything they weren’t supposed to do.

My new employee’s name is Thomas, and I’m going to let him take it from here:

“I was born about a year ago into a very poor family, and as soon as I was able to walk and talk, my mother told me that I would have to leave and support myself because there just wasn’t enough income in her household to support me and my brothers and sisters, and so I sadly left my humble home.

After days of scratching and meowing at every door I saw, I finally found a low paying job at a nice home. The lady of the house said they didn’t have much but would gladly share what they did have with me. Gratefully, I went to work for her family keeping the mice away and lying in the lady’s lap so she could pat me and reduce her blood pressure.

I stayed there for a while until, about a month ago, the lady called me into the office and told me that her husband had lost his job, and they would no longer be able to afford to keep me on the payroll. She suggested I check around a neighborhood farther away that seemed more prosperous where I shouldn’t have any problem finding a new job, and she offered to give me a ride to the area.

I sadly packed the few bits of Meow Mix I had managed to save and hopped into the lady’s car. She dropped me off in a community of nice homes, adorned by manicured lawns and flower beds. However, it was the same old story. Every time I scratched at a door and talked to people, they told me they couldn’t afford to hire anyone because of the economy.

After a few days, I had exhausted my supply of Meow Mix and was becoming desperate when I discovered a soup kitchen operated by a nice lady from a group called “Feline Folks.” I was the last cat in line of a crowd of maybe 10 cats she served, and after I had eaten the meal, she sat down to talk to all of us and assured everyone that she would keep coming to take care of us.

I saw my opportunity. I snuggled close to her and allowed her to pat me and then, I jumped into her lap and chattered away. She immediately realized that I was an unemployed housecat and not a tramp like the rest of the soup kitchen customers, and she promised me to give me some help in finding a new job.

The first item on the agenda was a trip to a place in Tampa called “ACT,” where I took a nap and woke to find I had been relieved of some surplus equipment. After that, I accompanied the nice lady to her home in Sun City Center where she allowed me to access her computer to send resumes to everyone she knew. It paid off immediately with a bark from Hobo, and I now have a permanent job with a very nice employer and good humans to help him take care of me.”


About Hobo

This was Hobo Hudson, my doggy brother, a little terrier mix with black fur. He became famous after his first attempt at writing stories, which was an article published in the newsletter of our local animal shelter, the same shelter in which I ended up years later before Hobo and his parents adopted me. Hobo’s fame quickly spread as he made a name for himself as a business dog and an adventurer. To keep his memory alive, my doggy sister, my three kitty siblings and I, Wylie Hudson, are continuing his blog. Our mom is the blog’s editor.

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