Ah, Mothers’ Day.  And a tip of my imaginary hat to Ann Jarvis whose perseverance  and tenacity resulted in this day being recognized by President Wilson 100 years ago as a nationally recognized holiday (though she later regretted this and protested to undo what she had done because it became what she never envisioned:  Commercialized).  So Dad unknowingly caused Ms Jarvis’ to roll over in her grave.  He patronized flower shops, candy stores, massage parlors and other mass producers of ‘just the right personal gifts’ for Mom.

But to start this day, Dad took Mom to the local Peet’s Coffee place, because Mom got a free beverage with the purchase of one of equal or lesser value.  He would drive untold miles and use a half tank of gas to take advantage of this incredible offer.  And he dragged me along as if I had a fervent desire for a double shot soy latte with extra froth.

On this Mothers’ Day, the winds were blowing with a vicious intensity, and the pollens were so huge you could see them laughing as they attacked the the sinuses of anyone daring to step outside.  Peet’s was crowded with other folks cashing in on the deal of a lifetime, and there was only one seat available inside after Mom and Dad scored their discounted coffees.  So, Dad, being the martyr to chivalry that he is, sat Mom inside and proceeded to the outdoor seating area.  Nobody but Dad and I ventured out to Peet’s patio.  Perhaps this due not only to allergies, but because chairs, tables and umbrellas were blowing around in a manner that would make Peet’s lawyers cringe with liability nightmares.

Dad chose to grab a chair that was airborne and set it by the window so he could be mere inches from Mom who was sitting on the other side of the glass.  Within minutes, Dad’s allergies kicked in full force.  No amount of antihistamine, tissues, eyedrops or even the space helmet Dad wears when the breeze reaches 5 MPH could preclude the allergic reaction.  As his breathing became a bit labored, he assumed his condition heralded impending doom.  He dramatically placed his hand on the window as Mom put her hand on the inside of the glass.  Like Spock in an old Star Trek movie, I could see Dad mouth the words, “You have been, and always will be my friend”.  At this point he collapsed with characteristic melodrama.

So, did someone call for a paramedic?  Not quite.  A compassionate barista casually went outside and dragged Dad by his feet back into the store.  Within a few minutes, Dad miraculously re-entered the land of the living, and resumed drinking his macho machiato with extra whipped cream.  I hid under a nearby table, pretending as I so often do, not to be associated in any manner with First Officer Spock of the starship Lunatic, whose mission it is to seek out new worlds of embarrassment and to boldly humiliate a faithful  canine companion as no one has done before.

When we returned home, I gave Mom my Mothers’ Day gift.  I didn’t buy it.  I made it.  She happily bent over, bagged it and dumped it in the garbage.  It’s the thought that counts, and I’m sure I assuaged the spirit of Ms Jarvis which Dad had managed to upset.  It’s the least I could have done for the founder of this special day.

My mom and dad, ever concerned about my health and well-being instead of concentrating on their own dilapidated bodies, have increased my daily dosage of vitamin C.  I haven’t had a cold in 12 years.  But, as I have grown older, they are looking for ways to extend my life and ward off illnesses, including but not limited to a myriad of herbal supplements, vitamins, laser treatments, massages, acupressure, and senior canine yoga ( I like the downward dog position).  I can take whatever they throw at me, but excessive vitamin C gives me horrible gas.  And for environmentally-conscious people, they can be oblivious to the obvious:  Climate change is exacerbated by gases released into the atmosphere and manifests in rising (vitamin) C levels.  They probably think that, the more gas I produce, the more C I require.  And this fallacious reasoning will undoubtedly have disastrous environmental consequences, as our household spirals into a chaotic gaseous haze.

I have written to the EPA about this impending disaster, and yesterday received the following reply:

Dear Flapjack,

We have received your complaint and have forwarded it to our Vitamins and Gases Unit for review.  Please note that complaints such as yours typically languish within our various departments, divisions, units, and sections until the complainants die or forget about the complaints, whichever occurs first.  At that point, they are generally misplaced or accidentally destroyed.  In rare cases, we actually investigate a complaint and arbitrarily deem it meritless, or effectuate a remedy which has no remedial value.  We appreciate your correspondence and invite you to contact us when you inevitably feel that we have taken absolutely no action.  We will deem your second response as a new complaint and utilize the process set forth above.  Your friends at the EPA wish you good health through a healthy environment.   

I’m still reeling, but I realized that I had to take this matter into my own paws.  So, I flushed the copious bottles of vitamin C down the toilet (let the fish get gas), and will continue to do so until Mom and Dad get tired of stocking up on it and wondering where it’s going (this could take years).  We all need to be vigilant about climate change and other environmental dangers, and this is one form of vigilantism that I can necessarily condone.  

A seasoned canine like yours truly is quite accustomed to visits with the vet.  Yes, it’s true that, as a young stud I would put on the brakes as I was being dragged into that antiseptic treatment room.  And I would thwart any efforts by the vet and his staff to perform even the most mundane procedures (I once ate an entire stethoscope before it could detect my angrily beating heart).

But now, adorned with the wisdom of the ages, I accept degrading and offensive veterinary treatment with simple dignity and grace.  OK, I admit that this is partly because I no longer have the strength and energy to do battle with the vet and his minions, but it is primarily because I have learned to accept the things I cannot change.  So, I not only go quietly and peacefully to that torture chamber, but I conduct myself with courageous resolve.  It is a sight to behold.  As I walk through those doors toward my periodic torture, I must remind onlookers of Miguel de Cervantes heading for the Inquisition to the tune of “The Impossible Dream.”

My dad is another story altogether.  Talk about seasoned.  If he were a roast beef, he would be encrusted with a 12-inch layer  of salt and pepper.  You would think, therefor, that he would approach his own doctor’s visits as easily as he approaches a haircut.  Sadly, this is not the case.  Today, he had a growth removed from his skin, and you would think he was being beheaded.  Naturally, I was with him as he needed a paw to hold, and I must admit that I took more than a hint of pleasure seeing him experience what he routinely puts me through.  It took all my resolve to stay with him through the screaming, the tears, and the sweat pouring down his face…and this was just the part when he was filling out paperwork.

When it was all over, I led my sweat-soaked hero out of the medical center.  When he said, “See Flap, I told you it would be a piece of cake”,  I just smiled like a parent does when a 3-year old child utters something cute but inane.  The entire ordeal was exhausting.  Later, three hours into my afternoon nap, I was sharply awakened by what I thought was an ambulance siren coming from the next room.  I quickly realized it was the sound of Dad wailing as he changed his bandage.  Simple dignity and grace.  I’m leading by example, but he’s not a dog so it’s going to take awhile.

“And the world will be better for this,

that one dog giving all that he had,

still strove with his last ounce of courage,

to teach the unteachable Dad.”

These are the times that try dogs’ souls.  Dad was playing a new CD by Blue Sky Riders, and was apparently into the music.  This was quite evident as his eyes rolled back in his head, his body contorted in uncontrolled convulsive spasms (he calls dancing), he broke into horrid exhibitions of air guitar and drum solos, and – perhaps worst of all – he launched into ear-splitting vocal death howls (he calls singing).  I’m sure Blue Sky Riders would be appalled that their music could elicit such obnoxious behavior.

Then, abruptly in the middle of the second track, he ceased all of these senseless annoyances, stared down at me and inquired, “Flap, how can you not like this?”  I suppose he picked up on a subtle clue…I was snoozing.

But I didn’t know if his inquiry was referring to this particular track, the entire CD, this genre of music, or music in general.  It also begs a broader question:  Do dogs hear music the way humans do?  We all know that dogs’ hearing is thousands of times more acute than that of humans, so we obviously hear music.

What saddens people, however, is that we do not enjoy human-generated music.  It is merely noise which can range from mildly calming to disturbing to outright painful (listening to Dad is off-the-charts excruciating..good thing I’ve learned to tune him out).  Sure, some dogs howl when they hear music, but let’s not confuse this with what humans regard as singing or enjoyment.  It’s merely either a primal reaction to certain sounds (as wolves responding to other wolves), or an attempt to please humans who seem to enjoy the vocal entertainment.

And here’s another truth.  Dogs absolutely love  music.  Not human-generated music, but the music of nature.  There is a rhythm to the passage of time.  We hear it as surely as people hear the beat of a drum or the pulse of a bass.  There are incredible harmonies in the moaning of the wind, the rustle of leaves, and the falling rain.  There are beautiful vocal stylings of hawks and sparrows, mockingbirds and doves, finches and meadowlarks.  Together, this music somehow conveys a serenity and reassurance that life’s fascination is enduring.  This is our music.

Some people know this.  Dad does not.  So, he’ll continue to expose his obviously ignorant and unappreciative dog companion to his music while I continue to snooze through the noise.  When it’s over, I can get back to the real music (although, I must say that if I actually appreciated human music,  Blue Sky Riders would rate pretty high on my list).

What’s this?  Dad is now lying on the floor, writhing in pain.  Seems round two of his dance spasms included stubbing his toe on a chair, stumbling across the room and slamming his head on the fireplace mantle.  And, in his inimitable, characteristic, melodramatic fashion, he is screaming like a toddler in full tantrum mode.  Well, scream on my friend…just more ‘music’ through which I can happily doze.       

I can’t help but hold anyone who discusses their own personal hygiene at some level of disdain.  I mean, this is what the term ‘TMI’ was made for.  Who wants to know your bathroom (or kennel) regimen?  And yet, here I am about to discuss a most important matter which will put the “gee” in hygiene.

Every night before I sack out, either Mom or Dad brushes my teeth.  Alright, I’ll wait until you stop smirking, laughing, or contorting your face in looks of disgust or incredulity.  Done?  OK, let me continue.

This is one of a very limited number of issues where I must agree with my companions.  They shared with me that dogs’ teeth should be brushed or treated for plaque and tartar for the same reasons that humans’ teeth are so attended on a daily basis:  bacteria can cause problems far beyond the mouth, affecting general health and cutting life spans.  Dogs’ lives are short enough without being further abridged by the likes of microscopic bad guys attacking teeth and gums.  Of course, Mom and Dad gleaned all this from the vet and other sources..they haven’t had an original thought since 1962.

Naturally, my teeth brushing routine did not get off to a rousing start some 9 years ago.  On that first, inauspicious occasion, Dad put gobs of toothpaste on my toothbrush and proceeded to brush my sensitive mouth like he was scrubbing floor mats in a car.  Then, he said “Spit.”  Say what?  He was obviously oblivious to the fact that dogs can no more perform the act of spitting then they can the soliloquy from Macbeth.  I thought he knew this, and was saying “Sit.”  So, I stood up and sat down again to show the moron that I had been sitting all along, and the command was unnecessary.  Then he poured some water in my mouth from a bottle.  I guess he was expecting me to swish it around, gargle to the tune “Hey Jude”, and projectile-spit it into the sink which was 10-feet away.  Instead, I gagged, emitting a wet, pasty goo onto his shoes.  To his credit, it only took six more nights of this same ridiculous scene until he modified his approach.  Now he places a tiny amount of toothpaste on the brush, places the brush handle in a vice at the level of my head, and allows me to brush my own teeth by sticking the brush in my mouth and moving my head around like some bobble-head doll.  Brilliant.

But the point is that I, having survived Dad’s approach to oral care, am now a poster dog for dental hygiene.  But wait.  It looks like he’s not yet satisfied.  It’s bedtime, and he’s approaching me with what  looks like dental floss in his hand.  This should be fascinating.

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!

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.

I got a new brush today.  There was nothing wrong with my old one, but when Dad and I were at the pet store he spotted this deluxe model, and he felt compelled to buy it,  against my vocal opposition.  You see, it had specially designed nubs which not only remove loose hair, but “massage your dog, promoting relaxation and a sense of well-being.”  I could see that it was just another scam, but Dad just had to get it.  When we got home, he was so anxious to try it out, I would have been insensitive not to play along.  I stood in my usual spot in the backyard and he brushed me thoroughly with this revolutionary piece of worthless plastic.  When he was done, he asked me if the “massage” made me feel relaxed with a sense of well-being.  I took 3 paces on the grass and pooped.  He was not impressed.

The problem was not the brush.  It was the venue.  When Mom has a massage, she goes to a spa.  She lies on a cushioned table in a pleasantly decorated and scented room.  The lights are dim and there is zen music playing softly while a masseuse gently kneads her muscles with expert hands and exotic oils.  I stand in the backyard while Dad shoves some plastic nubs up and down my body like he is sanding a piece of lumber.  Would it kill him to buy a table and put on a little music?

After the “massage” Dad had to take a call on his cell.  While he was distracted, I took the new brush and quickly gave it a proper burial in a bed of petunias.  When his call terminated, he looked frantically for the new brush.  To my gleeful amusement, he even commanded me to “Find it, Flap!”  So, I feigned a serious search of the yard, then I went into the garage, got my old brush and brought it out to him.  He just gave me a half-smile tinged with pity.  “Aw, good boy, Flap.  But that’s the wrong one.”

Now I’m bedded down for the night, but Dad is in the backyard with a flashlight, refusing to abandon the search.  I’m listening to the news on TV as my eyelids close…something about investigators thinking they know where Jimmy Hoffa is buried.

Maybe someday the news will be reporting the search for the dog brush…”mysteriously missing and rumored to be buried somewhere in California.  Its disappearance has haunted the brush-owner for many years.”

The homeowners’ association (HOA) in our neighborhood was contacted by certain of my neighbors.  Their complaint?  I had allegedly micturated repeatedly on certain yards, having targeted them for special treatment because I disagreed with the political views of the property owners.  Thus, I had violated the HOA’s IRS (irrigation regulatory scheme) rules and policies.  The neighbors went directly after my dad, as the buck stops with him for any and all of my misdeeds.

They demanded to know exactly what my dad knew about my allegedly nefarious activities, when he gained any such knowledge, and whether he directed, allowed or neglected to preclude my targeted urination practices.  It was insufficient in the eyes of these neighbors that Dad relieved me from relieving myself in any but my own yard after the complaint was filed.  They wanted his head on a stick (actually, I can relate to this desire, but I’d never admit it).  And so, they have demanded a formal investigation by the HOA.

My dad certainly has loftier and more important things to accomplish than to defend himself over something his dog did.  But it comes with the territory.  In fact, I have a record of embroiling him in issues he had never foreseen, and I’m quite proud of it.  Still, I can’t help but sympathize with his plight.

I have been subpoenaed by the HOA to testify about this unfortunate state of affairs.  I could claim 5th Amendment privileges, but I will not hide.  Anyone who knows me can attest that I would never urinate at a specific location because Dad so directed.  In fact, when this has happened in the past, I peed on his foot.  So, they will find that I acted independently, but they will also find that Dad, as my supreme ruler and master, is ultimately responsible for my behavior.  In short, he’s going down unless there is a groundswell of support in his favor.  I will lead the charge.  It’s the least I can do.

Ah, springtime.  Nesting birds, blooming flowers, itchy eyes, and raw, basic desires – barely constrained by the laws and mores of society – to engage in acts of longing and desire…like “freshening up” my kennel.

Yes, this is the time of year when Dad feels compelled by the tug of the season to don his ever-expanding tool belt and rudely invade my private space.  He calls it remodeling.  I call it laying siege to my fortress.  Last year, he got off easy.  Sprained thumb, a hole in his foot, diverticulitis, double hernia a nail through his right nostril and a near-decapitation.  This year, he said, would be quite different.

He looked like a knight going out to do battle:  Hard hat, full eye shield, steel-toed shoes, shin guards, chain mail body armor, and most importantly, a cell phone which automatically dials 9-1-1 when it detects him screaming, bleeding, or unconscious (his phone dials 9-1-1 on the average of twice daily).

Today, he was half-way finished in his quest to totally destroy my home.  Every time he completed the smallest task, he looked at me as if I should be impressed.  When I rolled  my eyes and turned my back, he was undeterred.  My kennel made the devastation of recent news-worthy disasters look like the cover of Good Housekeeping.  In the dust rising from the ruins, there was Dad..obliviously doing God knows what, without a hint of a plan or a clue as to how to implement one if one existed.

Then, at precisely 2:07 p.m. – a moment that will live in infamy – it happened.  Dad was standing victoriously atop a large pile of debris when he lost his balance.  The weight of his chain mail alone was enough to bring him crashing down just as a large tree branch (which he had inadvertently severed while he was chain sawing everything in sight) fell on his head.  His cell phone was crushed…so much for the auto-9-1-1.  I calmly went in the house and called the paramedics.  When they arrived, I embarrassingly  escorted them to my pathetic companion.  They asked me if this had been a suicide attempt.  I said, “Definitely, but not knowingly.”

Doctors assure me that Dad’s head will be back to its normal huge size in a month or two, but that I shouldn’t be surprised if a sapling starts growing out of his ear.  My dog homeowner’s insurance is processing my claim, and I have called a reputable contractor to repair the nightmare that once was my home.  After repairs, I will once again live in peace.  Until autumn clean-up is upon us.