How Do You Even Do That?

Okay, gun nuts, explain to me why you even are holding a gun while this is going on often enough to warrant a law against it?  Is this something I should start requesting from my partners?  Is it something that goes with pony play?  Some other kind of role playing?  Do you have to do it outside or can you just aim out a window?  Do I have a gun, too, or just you?  How does this work?

We’re Number 337! We’re Number 337!

Not since the Shill ran the Music City Marathon posing as me have I been this tickled at a marathon.  Folks, reader Summer informs me that she and her friends have been running the Baltimore Marathon as “Tiny Cat Pants.”

No, seriously.  How cool is that?

I mean, don’t get me wrong,  l love Heather Armstrong, but I don’t see any “Team Dooce” running the Baltimore Marathon, which goes to show that I might have a shit ton fewer readers that Dooce, but I have the fucking most awesome readers in the history of readership.

Well, okay, not as awesome as Lord Byron’s readers, who were willing to fuck him whenever he asked and keep him perpetually famous even though he’s not that great a poet, but second.  You guys are second.

So, Summer, as you asked, the buttons are up at the shop.  I’d also, if it wouldn’t be creepy to y’all, love to send you a care package for the marathon, so drop me an email and let me know if it’s still four folks on your team and where you want me to send it and I’ll get with the Shill and find out what runners need in a care package.  Having watched her, it appears as if you need bananas, tin foil, and, later, beer, but I’m not sure how well those things ship, so I’ll have to come up with some other stuff.

But, shit, if there’s a Team Tiny Cat Pants out there, I’ve got to support it.

Shoot, I feel a little like a NASCAR sponsor now.

If Monday Mornings Make You Feel Like Crying, Here’s Your Excuse

Sharon Cobb sent me a link to this story about the Michael Vick dogs.

I bring you the information I want you to carry away with you:

How can this be? Reports of gruesome pit bull maulings make international news. Pit bulls are one of the few canine breeds thought to be so dangerous that they are banned in some places.

The answer, says Frank McMillan, a veterinarian who is studying the recovery of some of the Vick dogs, is that we don’t know. “We’ve assumed all pits are the same, and we’ve never let this many fighting dogs live long enough to find out. There are hardly ever studies, because these animals don’t survive,” he said.

I am completely of the opinion that a regular joe should not take on the rehabilitation of any fighting dog.  That’s something you should do only if you have the resources and the knowledge and the experience and the time.  But I think what the doctor says here is important.  We’ve always assumed these were bad dogs and never bothered to find out under what circumstances they could be good dogs.

I will relay to you one anecdote and tell you one short story.

The anecdote: I heard recently about an animal control worker who, when faced with any dog that had bitten someone, called them a “pit bull.”  When called on it–over a black lab–the worker said “We have a lot of labs come through here.  If word gets out that they can bite children, they’ll never be adopted out.  We don’t have that many pit bulls come through and we don’t adopt them out as policy.  So, what’s it hurt?”

When my Aunt B.’s boy was six, he hit Mrs. Wigglebottom on the head with a large bone and she clamped down on his arm and he pulled his arm away and there was blood.  My Aunt B. said that this proved the dog was dangerous and demanded that she be put down.  That’s the short version of how she ended up with us.

Now my nephew is six.  He was up at my Aunt B.’s.  He was horsing around with her mastiff and did something the mastiff didn’t like and he, yes, bit my nephew.  Oh, the explaining, how if he’d really wanted to hurt my nephew, it would have been much worse, but clearly, he was just saying “no.”  And really what a good dog he was and it was just a misunderstanding.

My parents were kind enough not to point out what a weird thing it was that Mrs. W.’s behavior was unforgivable and a sign that she needed to be destroyed, but Max’s behavior was just a dog being a dog.

Funny how that works, isn’t it?