A Violation of My Writes

Now he’s gone too far.

In the past, my dad has subjected me to an array of humiliating, degrading and demeaning circumstances, briefly summarized in these posts.  And I, being an ardent adherent to the notion of turning the other cheek, have stoically and silently (well, almost silently) endured nearly all of his deplorable behavior…until now.

Some of you may know that I have written a book called The Adventures of Flapjack – Finding Where I Belong.  The story was dictated by me to him, and yet whose name do you think is listed as the author?  You guessed it.  I could truthfully call him a plagiarist, a thief or a scoundrel of the highest order.  But I am above slapping such labels of discredit on anyone…even a certain ersatz author who so richly deserves them.  But I ask you, does he truly believe that if he says, “Dan Cohen, author,” enough times, he’ll actually become one?  Apparently.  And that is just the beginning.

Last week, on July 24th to be precise, he appeared on a radio program (probably just walked in, uninvited, and started yapping, as is his proclivity).  The show is an intelligent and eclectic composite of interviews called Insight and it appears on Capitol Public Radio in the Sacramento area (capradio.org/insight).  It is hosted by Beth Ruyak, a highly respected, nationally known broadcaster.   And there, airing live to thousands of listeners, my dad managed to singlehandedly undercut the show’s reputation with his inane and nonsensical oratory , falsely claim that he authored my book, and then assert that I had been placed on house arrest and, therefore, could not appear on the show.

While it is true that I chewed up his favorite pair of boxer shorts, while I freely stipulate that he was wearing them at the time, and while I do not deny that I served a few moments in the proverbial dog house for my offense, I was NOT on house arrest during the show.  I could easily have appeared.  And had I appeared, I would have cleared up the “confusion” about authorship.  At the end of the interview, the very kind Ms Ruyak gave my dad a doggie treat that he was to deliver to me.  Instead, he ate it.  And I’m sure he was smirking with every bite.  Can he sink any lower?

So, now I’m sitting in the office of a successful canine rights attorney.  She assures me that I have a rock-solid case against defendant-Dad.  But I’m going to walk away from a potential fortune as a successful litigant, and resume my role as faithful dog to this thankless bonehead.  I blame myself.  If I were a better role model, he would be a better person.  So, I’ll try harder.  I’ll start by going home and slamming him on the head with MY book!


The Stars and Gripes

Well, another holiday, another humiliation.  It’s the fourth of July and, pursuant to my dad’s unfathomably stupid ritual, he has once again dressed me for the occasion and paraded me around the neighborhood.  Those of you familiar with this dog blog are apprised of the ridiculous garb I have been forced to wear on my ‘walks of shame’ through the streets of our town on even the most minor holidays.

Today, I was Uncle Sam.  My outfit consisted of the American flag wrapped around my body, a red, white and blue bow tie where my collar should have been, and a similarly colored top hat.  But despite the shame that inevitably attaches to these holiday strolls, there is one consolation.  Observing the reactions of neighbors – which I suspect is my dad’s motivation for these exercises in embarrassment – is usually humorous.  Today’s reactions were a bit different:

An elderly man with a VFW cap, stepped onto his driveway, came to attention, and smartly saluted me. I responded by sitting and raising my right front paw.  He got a little emotional and quickly headed back into his house.

A little girl, walking with her mother, stopped and placed her hand over her heart.  She started reciting the pledge of allegiance, but her mother stopped her.  “Honey, we don’t pledge allegiance to dogs, even if they are very inappropriately wearing the flag.”  The girl slowly lowered her hand, and they moved on.  But she sadly looked back over her shoulder and waved to me.

An irate lady who was about to get into her car, stopped and gawked at me.  Then she let my dad have it:  “You should be ashamed of denigrating our flag like that.  The flag belongs on a pole, not on a mangey, flea-bitten mutt!”  My dad calmly responded, “But what if the pole was mangey and flea bitten?”  Her only response was to get in the car and slam the door.  (For the record, I’m neither mangey, flea-butten, nor a mutt..er..mixed breed, not that there’s anything wrong with them.   And I don’t think a person of Polish descent should be the sole bearer of the stars and stripes).

When we returned home, my mom stared at my costume, then at my dad, and back to my costume.  She kneeled down, touched my face and said, “You are such a good patriot, Flappy..yes you are!”

So, as I settled down for my first of seven naps, I thought a bit about the flag, and why it sparks these various reactions.  After ruminating for a few seconds, I remembered that I’m a dog, and I don’t ruminate.  I masticate, I urinate, but I don’t ruminate.  I’ll leave that kind of reflection to my dad who, even as I write this, is contemplating the next holiday , the next costume and all its possible repercussions.