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Just in time for Valentine's Day,
the Guardian in London has
reviewed and raved about
The Secret Language of Sleep.
And, for the rest of the week,
you can buy it for $5!
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- - - - Dewclaw implants. The reason I say implant is because, for some reason, these vestigial toes are almost always removed at birth, clearly due to some long-forgotten, but still-adhered-to, human religious belief. This is sad because I’ve seen Max literally yelp in delight when coming across the real thing. (You know who you are, Scout!) Teat reduction. By “reduction,” I mean “fewer,” not “smaller.” I’m no scientist, so I don’t know if all dogs have the same number, but Max definitely avoids a certain boxer named Ginger in the neighborhood who is clearly carrying more than 10 nipples. Tail lift. Remarkably, while all dogs seem to sniff, Max will avoid any dog whose tail requires manual elevation. Also unattractive are the bobbed tails that seem to be the latest fad with cocker spaniels named Samantha. Bleached foot pads. I have no idea why this is or why Max seems to think that pink equates to femininity. If Princess is symbolic of what it means to be a woman, I think owners of female dogs need to ask themselves some serious questions. Nare enhancement. Max seems particularly averse to dogs with small nostrils, particularly Lindsey, no matter how pink her paws may be. Hip fusion. Perhaps this is cruel, but nothing gets Max panting like the goose-stepping gait of Fiona, who is blessedly afflicted with Scottie cramp. Dogs are lucky. Nearly every one of their diseases has a silver lining, I think. Flew extensions. With Max always sneaking up from behind, you would think that your dog wouldn’t need to mask her unbrushed teeth with a little extra lip overhang. As Mila the Whippet would tell you, you’d be wrong. Demodex. It’s all the rage in this part of the county. Sure, the great big patches of bare, mite-infested skin might seem uncomfortable, but there’s no analgesic like the pleasure of Max’s company. Whisker removal. Again, I know it’s superficial, and perhaps demeaning. (I told him it’s not like he’s sitting for portraits with the damned dogs.) Maybe it’s a power thing. I don’t think it’s a hair thing, ’cause he couldn’t give two rat treats for your pretentious French fucking poodle, Moira, and all her shaved extremities combined.
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