“Mwah! Mwah! Mwah!”

It came from the woman ahead of me in line. I could only see her back, but she was tanned, curvy and blonde, wearing a white babydoll t-shirt and short-shorts. I immediately forgot the free car wash and considered instead 1) the freedom of sportswear a really good figure can give you, and 2) whether or not this gal was wearing any underwear.

Just then the blonde threw a Chihuahua onto her shoulder. For a quick moment I thought she was going to burp it, but she only kissed its neck several times.

“Mwah! My baby!” she crooned as her dog quivered and trembled. “Don’t be nervous! Mwah! Mwah! Mwah! It’s just an old car wash!”

The line moved forward, prompting me to start digging around for my card again. All kissing and lack of underwear aside, who wants to pay for a car wash when they have a perfectly good free pass in their pocketbook… somewhere?

Just then the blonde whipped around, stunning me with one absolutely perfect bosom, barely contained within an ultra-low scoop neck.

“Do you own dogs?” she asked.

I hoped I’d averted my eyes quickly enough. “Yes!”

“Aren’t they great?”

“Oh, yes!” I nodded emphatically. “They’re great!”

She grinned and turned to face the cashier. “Pump No. 3!”

The cashier’s eyes widened until they looked like the cup lids by the soda machine. A man in a suit who was looking over the road map display also seemed transfixed. Both watched as the blonde struggled to open her handbag while holding her dog.

“Darn!” she said. She put down her handbag, pulled open the neck of her t-shirt, and tucked in the trembling pooch. The Chihuahua gave a contented sigh, echoed faintly by the cashier and Mr. Suit.

“He was cold!” laughed the blonde, handing her money to the cashier.

“Aw-w-w,” the cashier said hopefully.

“He gets cold so easily!” the blonde told Mr. Suit.

“Poor little pup,” sympathized Mr. Suit. “A Chihuahua?”

She laughed. “Yes! He’s a Chihuahua! Aren’t you, baby! Mwah!”

The cashier gave her a receipt, no doubt cursing his inability to make canine small talk. The blonde turned to Mr. Suit.

“Wanna pet him?”

The cashier and I froze. Mr. Suit’s mouth fell open, but he recovered quickly. Or at least, his hand did. It popped up, hovered briefly over the dog’s head, then moved in.

“Nice doggy,” he cooed, finally connecting with a pat on the pup’s head. “Nice, nice… doggy!” The Chihuahua made a little rattle, like the noise you hear if you hold the toaster lever down too long.

“Oh!” laughed the blonde. “He’s so protective! Mwah! Mwah! Mwah! Aren’t you, baby!”

She waved good-bye and sailed out of the lobby, the dog still tucked into her bosom, a hairy figurehead secured to the prow of a well-built schooner.

Mr. Suit wandered dazedly out the other side of the lobby. The cashier jumped when I pushed my credit card into his open hand. He completed the transaction and chuckled as he asked me for my signature, and I chuckled as I signed it.

In fact, I kept on chuckling until I sat down to wait for my car and realized my free car wash card was still in my pocketbook. Somewhere.

Mojo can’t stop sniffing me. He sniffs, runs around the room, and then comes back to sniff me again. He runs his nose up and down my jeans, as if I’ve hidden Casey Dog in them somewhere.

I haven’t written much about my Casey Dog for various reasons, but mostly because he wasn’t the kind of goofy dog who lent himself to slapstick. Even when he was a puppy he’d never do anything so crass as to jump on you, or chew on your hand, or sing when you played on the piano. He was a true gentleman, polite and respectful.

He was also extremely clever. When Sissy brought him home to us—a tiny bundle of black fur—we saw right away that he had a thing for tennis balls. He picked one up and dropped it into my lap, and then moved back a few steps, as if he wanted me to throw it.

I threw it, thinking that would be the end of it, but he brought it back to me and dropped it in my lap. Then he moved back a few steps, as if he wanted me to throw it again.

He was the first dog I ever had who taught me how to play fetch, rather than the other way around.

The boys were very small when Casey came to live with us but he was so good with kids. Even when we moved to the cul-de-sac, where 12 new kids made themselves at home in our house—shrieking and planting their handprints on the walls—Casey took it all in stride.

One of the cul-de-sac kids was named “K.C.” which made things kind of confusing because both names sound alike when spoken. So we started calling our dog “Casey Dog” and the neighbor kid “K.C. Boy”.

Poor kid. Even if he becomes the CEO of a major company, or a burly Harley biker, or even a star in the World Wrestling Foundation, we’ll still call him “K.C. Boy.”

Poodles don’t shed but you do have to clip them. The first couple of years I groomed Casey Dog myself to save money. Once I gave him a Mohawk just for the fun of it, but Casey Dog looked so hurt that I had to shave it off immediately.

We never gave him a foo-foo poodle cut, either, because Hubby said all the other dogs in the neighborhood would laugh at him. So he usually got a lamb cut or a kennel clip.

When we brought Mojo home, Casey Dog was as polite as he was to other dogs, but he did seem a little grouchier than before. We thought it was because he was finally getting old and crotchety. Once Mojo stopped piddling in Casey Dog’s bed, though, Casey Dog seemed more open to living with the bulldog usurper.

At one point Casey Dog took it upon himself to teach the new pup how to play tug-of-war. He’d hold the rings at the right height for Mojo to grab on, and then he’d growl and pull just like he’d do with any other dog.

When Mojo lost his grip, Casey Dog would stop growling, hold still and lower the rings again so Mojo could latch on, and then they’d resume their tug-of-war.

Casey Dog had strict rules, though. If Mojo reached up with a paw to pull down the rings, Casey Dog would give them a good, hard shake and Mojo would fall off.

In September I took Casey Dog in for a senior checkup. He’d developed a cough I was going to ask about, but on that day he also seemed sluggish.

The vet found a heart murmur and after some tests, she told me he had canine hemangiosarcoma. He could go at any time, she said, possibly live as long as three months, but that this was a fatal prognosis and there was no hope for him, especially considering his age.

I found it difficult to write anything at all about Casey Dog after that.

Mojo’s finally given up looking for Casey Dog. I let him sniff the bit of Casey Dog’s fur that the vet clipped for me as a keepsake this morning. Mojo seemed satisfied with that and now he’s snoring in his dog bed. I wonder if he understands.

I know we all have to die sometime, and I know we were lucky to have three months more with him than the vet predicted, but losing Casey Dog seems especially hard.

Maybe it’s because my boys are growing up, and Casey Dog was a part of their childhood, or maybe it’s because we’ve been through so much together. And maybe it’s just because he was my sweet, sweet Casey Dog.

I don’t know. I don’t know anything, except that it hurts.

We don’t say “diet” around here, no, no, no.

The very word diet comes from an Old French word meaning “put the cookie down,” and therefore denotes deprivation and great sadness, not to mention multiple handfuls of Nestlé Toll House Morsels tossed back when nobody’s looking.

Nope. In our house we use the phrase, “eat clean,” which means, we eat better than you.

It means that after intense dietary research, after the expensive purchase of lots of “whole” and “unprocessed” and “organic” foods, and after the violent and heartless removal of my stash of Nestlé Toll House Morsels from deep within the freezer, I may now make fun of my neighbor’s block of Velveeta when she isn’t in hearing range.

Because I’m eating clean, I’ve also gotten religion. Where I once mistakenly attended the Our Lady of Low Fat, I have now seen the light and worship at the Holy Mysteries of the Low Carb, where we tsk tsk about those poor souls still attending the Gathering of Calorie Counters. They’re all going to swimsuit hell. They just don’t know it yet.

Didn’t need religion yesterday, though. Any desire to eat instantly evaporated when I moved my kitchen trash container to sweep and found… this… creature:

Allow me to introduce the Kiwa Hirsuta, which after intense scientific study has been found to be not only very kiwa, but also extremely hirsuta.

Okay, so that’s the wrong creature. My creature was a land lizard of some sort, minus various body parts, whereas this is a sea crustacean of some sort, presumably found intact. But I’m certain the scientists who discovered this character also lost their appetites when they realized what garlic butter would do to all that blonde hair.

By the way, “kiwa hirsuta” means hairy garlic butter, in case you were wondering.

Nope, the lizard creature I found had crawled under my kitchen trash to hide from one of the cats, but sadly gave up and croaked after he realized the Lizard Swat Team also got eaten and at that moment was being regurgitated all over our living room couch.

Yes, “eating clean” in this house is much easier than you’d think it might be.

Not to be outdone, our standard poodle, Casey Dog, ate all the plastic red apple ornaments he could reach—only he threw them up on the carpet later. I’d say Squirt won that little bout of ornament eating.

Turns out Casey Dog had a thing for little red plastic apples, because the moment he had an opportunity he ate all the little red plastic apples he could reach on my brother-in-law’s Christmas tree. Thank goodness my brother-in-law had wood flooring.

Then there was the year Casey Dog took the baby Jesus out of the manger in our nativity set and ate him, too. He could’ve eaten a camel, or a sheep, or even one of the Wise Men, but no, he had to eat the Main Event.

Little Lego Jesus, asleep on the hay. Sort of. He’s standing up because he’s got to stay alert and fight off household pets.

I told him, “You may be going to hell because you ate the baby Jesus.” But he didn’t care, just sat there and licked his chops, like he was remembering how extremely tasty Jesus was and how easy He went down.

Now we use a little Lego man for our Jesus in the nativity set. Sure, we laugh about it, mainly because you know, these things happen sometimes.

Besides, Squirt finally came to understand the inherent wrongness in eating old sugar-and-egg-white ornaments, and we’re clean out of little red plastic apples that might tempt our Casey Dog.

Then Squirt said something today that brought my Christmas complacency to a crash:

Squirt: What are we going to do when we finish wrapping our presents?

Bonnie: Put them under the tree, of course.

Squirt: Mom.

Bonnie: Squirt.

Squirt: Mojo, Mom.

humor, bulldog, Christmas, dogs

A sparrow knocked over 23,000 dominoes in the Netherlands, nearly ruining a world record attempt before the bird was shot to death yesterday, the state news agency reported.

The unfortunate bird flew through an open window at an exposition center in the northern city of Leeuwarden where employees of television company Endemol NV have worked for weeks setting up more than 4 million dominoes in an attempt to break the official Guinness World Record for falling dominoes Friday night.

Only a system of 750 gaps in the chain prevented the bird from knocking most or all of the dominoes over ahead of schedule, “Domino Day” organizers were quoted as saying by the NOS news agency.

The bird was shot by an exterminator with an air rifle after it was cornered.

“Hapless sparrow unspared after domino debacle,” San Diego Union Tribune, Nov. 15, 2005.

International condemnation fell swiftly on the domino stackers.

Germany: “Death by Domino… It is best not to get between the organizers of “Domino Day 2005″ and their precious tiles. The price? Death, as one sparrow found out.”

Associated Press: “The bird was shot by an exterminator with an air rifle while cowering in a corner.”

Australia: “FOWL PLAY IN DOMINO CHALLENGE”

United Kingdom: “Sparrow executed for disturbing dominoes”

None were as harsh as the Dutch themselves. No less than 7 organizations have protested the shooting because the sparrow is on the endangered species list. The man who shot the sparrow even received a death threat.

“Is it really necessary to kill a bird that knocked over a few dominoes for a game?” asked a member of one of the Dutch animal protection agencies. “I think they were awfully fast to pull out a rifle. If a person started knocking over a few dominoes they wouldn’t shoot him would they?”

They might have. Apparently everybody involved in Domino Day 2005 was on edge after a local radio station disc jockey offered 3,000 Euros to anyone who could knock down the dominoes before their scheduled toppling on Sunday. Extra security had been hired to protect the dominoes against any radio station fans.

Meanwhile, newspaper headline writers had a good time with this one:

Los Angeles Daily News: “Bird knocks over dominoes, meets tragic end for gaffe”

Detroit Free Press: “Bye, bye, birdie”

Scotland’s Daily Record: “THE DOMINO EFF-PECKED”

I think my favorite commentary came from the international football (soccer) site, Goal.com:

A poor sparrow was shot to death in Leeuwarden, Netherlands, while cowering in a corner, after it flew through an open window and knocked over 23,000 dominoes that were going to be part of a world-record attempt of over 4.3 million dominoes. So what did they do to the Dutch soccer team after they got waxed at home by Italy on Saturday?

Sparrow, Domino, Domino Day 2005