Angela Bocage

Category Archive

The following is a list of all entries from the animals category.

Seconds like these; Mosquito girl; and dogs like Merle

What a fantastic week. Full of energy, with my Berekiah dog feeling good and eating well, I’ve been drawing and writing and talking to fantastic people who feed my brain and heart, and reading great books. Some who know me will understand my pleasant surprise and delight at a new level of ability to quiet the over-thinking, anxious, horrid-scenario-pumping-out, noisome chatter of my monkey mind. Meditation, yoga, music, dogs, exercise, fresh vegan food? Or–or could my Official First Mosquito Bite of the Summer earlier this week have been……..radioactive?!

[Comicbook fantasies duly cued—Watch out, hatahz: it’s Mosquito Girl! Capable of annoying the hell out of any one person, even the Dalai Lama! Or  a whole roomful! Like the Kolot Chayeinu congregation on a Day of Awe!  She can fly (erratically, but yeah, guess you’d have to call it that)! On broadcast media she can annoy the hell out of millions at a time! Not only by her essence-sucking curiosity, but even at a distance, via Mosquito-humming with the exact opposite of perfect pitch… Ahem. Anyway. Silly’s part of it, honesty’s part of it, but the key might conceivable be mitigating the merciless self-loathing a tad; it’s so distracting…]

Am increasingly thankful for my awesome housemate and the loving, smart, sneaky funny dogs who share our lives. We do our best to listen to them and learn from them, but she can seriously read their minds, I’d swear to that in court, so she was demonstrating her considerable kind wisdom by lending me Merle’s Door, by Ted Kerasote, and thinking I’d like it. An account of a man’s adoption of a young stray and their subsequent life together, this book blew me away—super-nutrition for the mind of any dog lover, trainer, or anyone who works or lives with canines.

I am a right snot about dog books, and do not apologize. What we know about, do with, and teach our dogs is literally a matter of life and death for them. If you never read another word of dog lit, flip through Ian Dunbar’s gentle, witty masterpiece, How to Teach a New Dog Old Tricks just to read his brief snapshot-like selections from the brief biography of a badly socialized, haphazardly trained dog. And note how normal it sounds. And then, if you like, check the statistics regarding how many “pet” dogs are euthanized before their second birthday.

For over a decade, I’ve been studying with APDT-member trainers (the Association of Pet Dog Trainers, one of whose founders is Dr. Ian Dunbar), formally observing classes taught by CPDTs (Certified Professional Dog Trainer is the APDT certificate of expertise as measured through broad knowledge, substantial practice, and requiring continuing education), assistant teaching now and then, and taking both my canine friend and several foster kids through CPDT-taught puppy, “teen,” pre-agility and obedience classes. My first teacher, the awe-inspiringly quick, intuitive, dog-observant Deb Manheim, could see the fascination thus inspired, and introduced me to the APDT, the Dogwise book site, and the required reading list for CPDTs. Vast, eternal gratitude, Deb! The balanced, thorough, and scientifically current approach taken by this training organization and the breadth and quality of the literature they recommend opened my eyes to the minds, behavior, and whole world of dogs in ways I could never have foreseen.

When I began Merle’s Door, I admit to some trepidation that this would be another example of poetic wankage (see, e.g.,  Jeffrey Moussaieff [ck splg)…full of testimony to the author’s being a sensitive dude and an excellent writer, but far lighter on real insight into the canine mind.

Slap my face and call me Susan: Kerasote’s the real-ass thing, citing real anthropology, real science, even tracing the twists and turns the science has taken in our own adult lifetimes. A few examples: he cites the Belyaev study, Raymond and Lorna Coppinger, Patricia McConnell, and Dr. Dunbar, reviews the recent archeological thinking on the human-facing-canine burial finds, and manages to tell a good story in which he seemed to, hallelujah, actually listen to what his dog was teaching him! Highly recommended.


Spring is here; will I manage to become diurnal?

I was walking around outside today with tiny dogfriend, thinking about taking pictures whenever I saw new bulb-sourced plant-blades vibrating with green like just-plucked cello strings. I didn’t want to take disappointingly imprecise telephone pictures of such beautiful tender things. Such newly-minted sunlight, such a blue blue sky today. I remember desiring spring with a clawing greed, but apparently I had recently become resigned to winter. I know that it’s likely to be this warm for at least three more days; that doesn’t mean I take it for granted. It was the first warm day. Therefore it was the first day my friend and I had walked outside together in weeks. I didn’t want to hurry him. I wanted him to get a chance to sniff the world. We had gotten almost to the big street to cross to get to the green grass of Lemon Hill before I fully realized I had no coat on! My clothes were naked!

Despite the pants of my outfit being raggedy and filthy, my clothes weren’t ashamed of that, no way, my clothes have been borderline proud lately, because of the way I’ve been inhabiting them. I don’t mean just wearing them til they’re filthy and crusty, though I’ve done that some, but more that since I moved to Philadelphia it’s been winter and I haven’t gone outside unless I had to, so inside, clothing’s been chosen for cozy warmth: no bra would clutch my flesh for days at a time, if I were inside, even outside if I could manage a baggy enough, hidden enough look. Outside clothing’s been judiciously chosen to say “I am not trying to look nice for you,” and “leave me alone,” and “F off I am none of your business!” except when I’m going to see a girl I like or a friend I trust. Sometimes it’s been the same clothes to see my local friends, but the same clothes with with a very different attitude: hey, y’all know I’m a train wreck right now, so you’ll see me in this faded hoodie/baggy sweater, these pants of my tall ex’s hacked off to no semiotically intelligible length just above muddy salt-damaged black combat boots, and go, “yep, she’s a train wreck,” and that’s cool. I thought it best to just let myself be a train wreck for awhile, because damn it seven years, that’s longer than lots of marriages.

I didn’t catch any pix of the crocuses today, but I might tomorrow, because I have a beautiful little digital camera that’s new. I haven’t fully figured out my new camera or put it in communication with my laptop yet, I almost forgot I had a camera, because I got the camera as a gift from my ex mere days before I moved out, it’s bright red and beautiful and fantastic and I have no idea how or why she gave it to me for Christmas (while with her I eventually gave up on celebrating Chanukah though this was in no way her fault; she got me a pretty chanukiah and candles the first year, and the second or third, a light-up plastic 1/4 size miniature donkey we called Zev the Chanukah Donkey). I mean, I know we got it at an indistinguishable suburban Wal-Mart, we were making a lot of late-night trips to indistinguishable suburban Wal-Marts (“Bourses des Murs”) in the last couple weeks before I moved out, for things like more plastic bins and duct tape, but I hope I didn’t somehow get her to give me the camera by being manipulative. Why I was so afraid of being manipulative I don’t know, as clearly she was not changing her mind about taking away my partner/life/home/marriage/cats/car/garden/lover, which mind-change was the one thing I would have wanted to gain from successful manipulation if at all possible.

I was so horrified and devastated that she’d broken up with me (that was back in September, or maybe October, I can’t remember how it fell with respect to what would have been our seventh anniversary). I flatly insisted there was no way I could possibly move before December first because of all the organizing and packing and judicious, intelligent paring down of my clothes and art supplies (two categories equalling most of my earthly treasure) that’d have to be done for a sensible, rational move. But, then I just cried all day for weeks, couldn’t sleep at night, and didn’t really do much of that clever stuff at all. With makeup, however, I did an excellent job of organizing. I have tons of it, mostly good, because I had, when life was whole and normal back long ago and far away, done makeup for performers and wanted to get a license and join whatever union necessary and do it for a living. Also my clothing, to a great extent, was carefully organized; except any clothing I hadn’t worn recently was bagged and I got rid of it without even opening the bags. That might sound like a pretty insane move, and perhaps it was, but the only item about which I’ve had the least twinge of regret is a black suede 70s vintage miniskirt with metal buttons, and I’ve been losing so much weight by being vegan again (also forgetting to eat at times) it would be falling off of me now.

Now my ex and I send each other funny emails. We wish each other to get well soon if sick. We have friendly conversations. She calls me “darlin” during these friendly conversations, as she used to do her just-friends-friends in my hearing, which I now realize shot jealousy-adrenalin through my body. I know she was right, I repeat to myself, she was right to break up with me, I wouldn’t go back, I wouldn’t go back for so many layers and dimensions and concentric quantum shells of reasons. Knowing that, I still let myself cry or sleep whenever I need to, because that has got to be the way to get any last vestiges of grief sickness out of my system faster. Well, healthy diet, hydration, exercise, vitamins, flossing, brushing, rinsing, canine communion, maintaining friendships and activities whenever possible. All this means I am SOOO determined to survive, survive and succeed in living my own life, not a satellite existence, trading all autonomy and free choice for the feeling of trust/protectedness/safety I had with my ex. Besides the obvious point that all of those nice feelings were delusional—i.e., the person I thought was providing that protection was in fact going to dump my caressable shapely ass—safety itself is a joke, when a car or an aneurysm could hit any given day.

So I am often up until four or five in the morning. Diurnality may reorient itself as I get better and better, more and more clear and happy and strong, or maybe nocturnality will prove a more personally workable schedule. After all, this way I get to enjoy the beauty of both sunset and sunrise. One of the most helpful things to remember after any personal setback: never compare the roller-coaster careen of one’s own life to anyone else’s, so often what seems devastating was in hindsight salvific.

Practicing for a sailboat?

Moved to my new place in the beautiful Brewerytown/Art Museum neighborhood of Philadelphia in December and love it. I have a bedroom that sticks out from the house and reminds me of the prow of a ship. If I think of the ship as a graceful old sailing vessel, I would be the studly pirate captain’s lover; while leadership, swordfighting, and brilliant strategies would be among her top skill sets, mine would involve careful and innovative means of navigation, accurate documentation of the flora and fauna we encounter in colorful detailed drawings, and short-blade infighting if and when necessary. On the sunny islands where we live between raids, I’d lead yoga classes for the crew as well as critical study groups. We’d be the most flexible and literate of predators…

As will be abundantly clear from the above, I really should start dating, and I am, tentatively…Also want to find a very progressive, lesbian-friendly Jewish chavurah or congregation, and a small-canine-friendly doggie playgroup! My sweet Japanese Chin companion is definitely dealing with some limitations now occasioned by his enlarged and congested ticker, but he takes his medicines and enjoys life a lot, having adjusted to living with our housemate’s big beautiful girl dog with his typical Zen elan.

As far as work, I am sketching comics but not committed to anything at length yet, working on two plays, rewriting one screenplay (the horror-comedy I did with the nicest het boy ever as co-writer: he’s single, Jewish, employed, and works out, all you nice straight girls!) working on a novel more sporadically than I would like, and fairly obsessed with a very strange piece whose final form hasn’t revealed itself yet, but which is already both funny and scary, two of my very favorite things to write.

If you would like to read more, or be a yenta either about potential shuls or potential dates, or have extra Mal Blum/Melissa Ferrick tickets, I’m on Facebook &…

Another arachnophobic reflection

Drove into town today, partly to help a gardener friend schlep dirt, mostly because I’d missed the train. Emerging from the parking garage after work, I saw a large, dark-charcoal-colored spider, covered with lighter grey hairs, perambulating across my windshield. There was no WAY I was not pulling over and leaping out–in a split second I could see it was probably on the outside, but “probably” was thoroughly insufficient. With the car stopped I could see it DEFINITELY outside. It started to rain. The spider sort of rappelled down off the windshield but I couldn’t see where it had gone. I started the wipers with great trepidation–I don’t want to harm or kill beings. But I am so terrified of spiders.

I have really started wondering why. Why is a spider literally worse than death? Perhaps it is that they can appear so suddenly. We ADDers have embarrassingly powerful startle-reflexes (my kids had lots of fun with that one when they were itty bitties! LOL). There’s the dropping down on you on a little thread thing. But is it mostly the fact that something that can touch you so softly can then stab you with venomous burning pain? That may be the closest to reasonable the definition of what is admittedly a phobia can come.

“The Other End of the Leash,” indeed!

Almost all my grand plans for the weekend went swirling down the drain very very quickly when on Friday morning, getting up earlier than I did at great personal sacrifice, my partner, whom I’ll call HB because that’s what the cute ex-quarterback with whom she played flag football calls her—got “clipped” by Aretha Exene the lab puppy.

Looking at a paperback containing all the football minutiae in the universe, she says, in a pained but kind way, “It’s also called crack-backing.” I think I typed that right; she groaned, “And I swear she did this little ‘sack dance’ around me when I hit the bricks of the patio.”

To me, ‘sack dance’ sounded rather kinky at first, but I think she probably meant when the other players “sack,” or knock down/jump on/bury-in-a-pile-of-themselves the quarterback. Even though she was, as I mentioned, the halfback. Football is sooo confusing.

But the girls who have played it. Oh dear God. Girls like that…the way they walk and dress and smile and the confidence they have. I feel funny inside…

ANYWAY…this post was supposed to be about dogs, after all—you know the research showing how having animal companions can improve humans’ health, on multiple levels? Everyone should know a lot about that by now. It’s been published so widely, one would think those wacky animal lovers have infiltrated, and control, the insidious secular humanist liberal media!!! (Why, I heard Rachel Maddow mention her girl partner the other day on television! And she sure gets flirted with a lot by that cute redhaired correspondent she frequently features!)

Well, there’s a backlash at work! This ridiculously sensationalistic article appeared all but blaming dogs for sending our elderly into tailspins of painful decline because people trip and fall over them. So odd—the actual findings of the study suggest that falls are rare, and confirm that no human in the study has died as a result. (One unfortunate feline did.) So, even with dog and cat companion populations as high as they are, only one percent of all falls could even be termed “animal-related.”  Not “animal-caused,” as no distinction was made between falls occasioned by human negligence and those more likely caused, like HB’s lateral collateral knee injury, by exuberant canine fun-seeking.

“Lateral collateral knee injury…intense sacral pain…multiple abrasions and contusions…probably torn ligaments…sprained abductor…” my poor spouse enumerates each of these excruciating results of exuberant canine fun-seeking. “Wish I’d read that article earlier…”

An independent little dog is scaring me

Berekiah, my heart’s companion, a glorious example of everything delightful about the noble Japanese Chin breed, turned nine in February. Last night I came home and rather than racing up, spinning around my feet to announce his news of the day, waving his plumy tail, he sat in one place, shivering, had trouble standing, wouldn’t eat. On the advice of our excellent nearby vet ER I brought him in. Though we knew he has cardiac issues, it seemed to be the back injury of last autumn that had made him miserable. He got good drugs, and an edict of quiet rest for two weeks. Unfortunately or fortunately, the good drugs are making the rest difficult to enforce. “Tsk, Eema, I’m fine already, let me go exploring.” I am guessing this is his message, as the little cuss just snuck down the stairs, maximally verboten, and is smiling up at me. Obviously not asleep!

I was so worried last night he wouldn’t even be coming home with us. My partner is such a rock, she communicated to the vets when I couldn’t, was so kind and patient and willing to do whatever Berry needed, even after a hard day/week at work. I am blessed to an amazing degree. I told Berry, please don’t leave me just yet, I have so much more to learn from you.

White Snow Black Dog Black and White Dog…

I just wanted to add that one of the most wonderful things about the trip to Washington DC last weekend, although SO MUCH was, was that I had my best  little male friend with me, Berekiah the Japanese Chin. His manners, as always were gentle and elegant. At one point, a small boy was walking towards him and then became shy. Berry stopped and smiled, and waved his tail—not wagged, not too fast, just a gentle greeting. The poor kids relatives dragged him off, through no fault of the pup’s. The way he is with little children is one of the sweetest things about him, which I noticed especially when we used to live in a very poor neighborhood where the kids tended to be scared of dogs! He’d even lie down on the sidewalk, smile, and be as nonthreatening as possible to invite them to touch his silky fur. He just turned NINE last month and I find that I want to spend every moment I can with him. He is so beautiful, with the liveliest most sensitive and expressive face. I even miss him when I’m @ work. 😦

Then there’s the Big Black Dog, Aretha Exene aka the Hellhound, A.E. or Ree. (And no, she doesn’t think her name is “GODDAMNITARETHADROPTHAT!”) She’s still a crazy puppy—her other mom tends to describe her as the canine equivalent of  “a six-foot-tall toddler that lifts weights and bites.”  I have a sprained arm, a probably-broken finger, and my sweetheart and I are ALWAYS bruised and scratched, but we can’t be angry at a puppy for being a puppy, especially, says Coach, “when the puppy is such a glossy-coated, limpid-eyed gargantuan-pawed, eager-to-please lolloping young’un!” 🙂 Also, Aretha Exene’s a lot better since she learned a lot in Taming the Teen (Puppy) class at our AMAZING local dog center, the Pet Campus. We learned even more. And the people there seemed so cool, and their attitudes so respectful and understanding towards the dawgs that when we knew we were going to DC for Coach’s birthday, we arranged for her to do her “first big girl sleepover” there at their boarding facility. They were super good to her, obviously, because she was all shiny and happy when we picked her up, and her report card (!!!!!) said she ate really well…and much to our joy and SHOCK, she also was “fun to play with” and…and...invited back! LOL!

A new theme song for 2009! And happy Darwin Day!

My beloved friend blogging at More Madonna, Less Jesus has changed her format and has a lot of fantastic pictures of…of a nice WARM climate…with beaches…and, and clear sky…and people not all #$@! bundled up in down coats! Sigh. Weep. Anyway, she also shares a fine moment from…”her favorite local band.” The link is pretty much like so:

It’s great not to be afraid. Boy do I know it. Now I do, yes, I know what it’s like NOT to live in fear every day.  I am so thankful for that: to the spirits, and also my beloved partner. ❤ Once nobody can threaten you with pain or death—or, as cited by that wonderful band, Prove It, from More Madonna’s blog, crocodiles—how free is that? Of course I have sooo long a way to go, because even more than death and pain, I fear the graceful arachnid…I’m trying to either think of them as tiny oddly shaped scorpions  or sort of remember the old Superboy comics where Lana Lang became the Insect Queen (thanks, I believe, to a ray gun built by an old-familial-wizard figure, either her uncle or her dad?). She could become a human-size version of whatever insect a given danger required for its neutralization! I feel affectionate kinship with scorpions, bats, rats, snakes, and can’t fathom how people are afraid of them—which I realize is RIDICULOUS! LOLZ!!! But Lana learned that since she could also become crustaceans and spiders, at some point she realized she was The Arthropod Queen or something…it was all pretty goofy! Comics are great for helping overcome fear. As a tiny leetle Southern girl in second and third grades in P.S. 59 in Manhattan, afraid to talk because if I did I had teachers and students alike thinking I was kinda special cause my accent was pure,  I was sooo often absolutely bewildered…until my mom started taking me to Bill and Rose’s newsstand on 2nd Avenue and I started hiding Thor and Batman and Daredevil and Spidey and the Legion of Superheroes in my nasty horrible math books! I can still remember how wildly delightedly I would smile thinking of my comic books when I was that age. 😀  😀  😀

Oh noes it was puppy war! Plus more on the Pembrokes…

I received the unsettling news today that two puppies I know by their photographs and the enthusiastic reports from their uncle, Napoleon and Dutch, a brace of spirited golden red mini-dachshund adopted brothers, were not seeing eye to eye. My friend their uncle emailed me that Dutch had “attacked” Napoleon. Over chewy playthings. But but but….if there are fewer chewy playthings than puppies, I reasoned, will not some healthy exercise of puppy muscle ensue?? I was apparently in denial. The bite on the Napoleonic noselet was described as “ugly.” Now, I am wanting to think, ze dachshund, thees eez a scrappy dog, non? I am again wanting to minimize, in the tiny space of my own mind–that very very tiny space–any inter-puppy unpleasantness. But here, I suppose, is the question–is the dachshund, included, here in the States, in the HOUND group, who knows why (–but the Norwegian Elkhound is, I most strongly suspect, in there by sheer translation error, the “hund” part just meaning “dog” in the Norway and the Elk anyway not even meaning Elk as we know them at all but Moose)–a hound?? A laid-back-less’n-ah’m-huntin’, sprawlin’ in the sunshine, lovin’ them other canines in mah pack, big-ol’-voiced, HOUND?? Or perhaps—since the other part of the word “dachshund” refers to their being employed hunting badgers, who live in burrow-like-thingies called setts—in fact terriers??? I must find the answer, and will report back.

The Corgis I mentioned seeing last night in their canine-Oscar-winning performance were Pembroke Corgis, sweet little blacknosed golden-and-white-faced ones. As the old saying goes, “The Cardigan Welsh Corgi is the one with the tail. The Pembroke is the one with the Queen of England.” Something about how that statement works linguistically has always just flat out delighted me. While, as you can see, I had lots of discussion over my injudicious, premature and oh just perhaps a tad over-the-top criticism of Mr. Jeff Sharlet’s Rolling Stone article (I mean it now babies, no stealing his book! When it comes out purchase it or get your library to order, yes!) , no one wrote about the Corgles until now. Apparently there’s a wonderful book called Noble Hounds and Dear Companions about ALL the dogs the British royals have been involved with, and it includes a mention of the oh so most noble and *fluffical!!!* Japanese Chin! And here is a link to some its pictures. Thanks ever so, y’all!

Click here: Telegraph | Picture Gallery | ROYAL DOGS

Tearful a.m., blessed p.m., and–CORGIS. And a new cartooning possibility…!

I’ve been neglecting this more serious blog to have my silly fun over at my MySpace blog, but enough of that…today was enough of both, really. And anyway, when my much-admired blogger, serious, scholarly, politically aware, ethical, cool, Witch and polyamourist pal tells me she’s gonna make a t-shirt that says “I’m not Prince Charming but I’ll F*** You ‘Til He Gets Here,” all the categories blur…we might do a comic strip together, though, about her adventures dating straight girls! They are SO into her, which I can totally understand anyone being, and it’s certainly about time for me to draw some more.

Anyway, this morning we had to go in early, because my resked’d driving test was at 2 and my spouse had to drive into the city from her suburban office and had to get work done first, of all things. So maybe i was somewhat sleepless. But when this nice young guy at work, who’d also used to frequent the late lamented Blackout Books in NYC, brought in the Rolling Stone article about Brad Will, I couldn’t read much before I flat-out lost it. I couldn’t stop crying. I clenched my teeth, told myself it was better to just cry as quietly as possible and get some work done than go to the ladies’ room because I’d probably just break down worse there, and sloggy kleenex after sloggy kleenex plopped into my plastic-lined cheapo office wastebasket….

Everybody knows who Brad Will is, right? Ha! The corporate media sure had the disappearance of some pretty teenager partying with her senior class in Grenada all over every front page in America, but the cold blooded political murder, in Oaxaca, of a scruffy guy who was there to report the truth? Not so much. The “truth,” unwieldy and blobbularly nebulous concept that it is on its best day, was so bizarrely corsetized into homogenized yuppiethink in the Rolling Stone article that I wasn’t just crying for Brad, and for the loss of Brad, and for a world that’s lost him, but for the smarmy monkeyshit in which his memory is buried, if articles like this are all anyone sees. Apparently there are other written and filmic accounts in the works, and i will definitely, definitely write about what i find.

In the meantime, I stuck my earphones in and blasted myself deaf in the left ear between the False Prophets’ Overkill and Blind Obedience again and again and more personally-cheering pieces like Plastic Bertrand’s Ca Plan Pour Moi, Loreena McKennitt’s Dante’s Dream, and Current 93’s Tam Lin, playing drums and bass somewhere on the astral plane, and, strangely, getting a prodigious amount of work done before time to leave for my driver’s test.

The taxi ride over to Columbus Boulevard and Tasker, where the Driver’s License Center sits most harmoniously with its surroundings on the corner, certainly corroborated my lovely coworker Mahesha’s information that that neighborhood’s drivers are libertarian absolutists regarding which lane one can turn left out of. We almost, but did not, get killed on one such occasion, so I busied myself reading interesting facts in the Rights and Responsibilities sections, for both passengers and drivers, posted on the back of the front seat. I fantasized that since the driver was a total slob, and yakked departure-to-arrival on his cell phone, thereby abdicating two of his responsibilities, perhaps I could have been forgiven for schlepping a muddy baby goat or incontinent miniature horse, as two of my responsibilities were not to tote “unrestrained” animals and not to dirty the interior.

Though Coach was a lot more worked up about the test than I was, the Powers smiled lovingly and I got the sweetest, nicest, most gallant–I’d venture to say courtliest!–driving tester one could imagine! What a sweetheart! And slipped as effortlessly between the now-daylit parking cones [I’d practiced there the night before, along with some other enterprising women–cf. my MySpace] as a muddy baby goat into a taxi! No, wait, MUCH more so!!! And this is after a calm, cool, collected cruise ’round the area–so the sweetie-pie tester turns to me after I’ve reparked Coach’s vehicle (Pallas Athena aka “Speedy”) and says “As we say in South Philly, ‘Bingole!'” (And Coach’s sun-visor St. Christopher medal, which had survived WWII on a submarine, probably came out of the duck-and-cover position he’d assumed when her Hebrew honey got behind the wheel…)

So watch out, cz i’z licensed to pilot carz in todos los Estados Unidos, y Guam, France, Germany, and Puerto Rico tambien!!! And so we came home and this evening watched The Queen, which is brilliant, and whose Corgis won the coveted Fido award, Britain’s canine answer to the Oscars, and deserved it richly every one. The cuteness ALONE woulda aced it, but their dance of synchronized obedience to queenly directives was too prosh!!! and any dog lover should seriously see this flick…even if it was a tad inaccurate in the conformation of the Labradors.

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