Bad Days to Be a Black Hot Dog – by Max

Sep 1, 2018

See that video up there? That’s when I’m happy – when there’s tons of snow, the temperature is reasonably below zero, there are hundreds of miles of snowmobile trails to walk, and we are surrounded by lots of snowy hillsides for me to slide down on my belly and butt. Sure, in the summer there are a lot more blueberries to scrounge and people to spear in the crotch with my giant head. But I’m a winter dog and I like my walks to be cold, endless, and full of people on snowmobiles who pull over to say hi, give me beef jerky, and let me spear them in the crotch with my giant head. The puffy snowmobile suits really make it easy on the old snout.

I’m not complaining because I know winter is right around the corner, but this summer has been very hot. Excessively hot. Especially for a black dog who was bred to retrieve dead birds in icy-cold ocean water off the eastern coast of Canada. And if you’re wondering what a black dog does about this awful heat Don says “Pants. The verb. Not the noun.” Then Don and the people laugh. Don laughs at all of his own jokes.

All I know is that I can’t swim enough in the cold ocean to stay cool, and it’s too uncomfortable to lie on the foam beds Don puts out in back of the shop. To Don’s complete, utter shock and amazement, I prefer the scorching driveway pavement every time. You see, that same coat that insulates me from the icy cold ocean water also insulates me from the sizzling pavement. One time they had to pull me away from a hot wood stove because my hair was getting singed and stinking up the cabin. I was so well insulated I had no idea.

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That reminds me – one day last summer when I was on the floor of the shop getting buttrubs and spearing people in the crotch with my giant head, there was this lady who yelled at Don about keeping Auggie and Buddy chained out back without any water during “the hottest day of the year.” She was really angry. She cut to the front of the line and was talking to Don very loudly and shrilly. That’s never a good thing for a person talking to Don. I would say “talking WITH” Don, but Don only said three words.

She kept talking at him and Don kept checking people out at the register. He never paid her any attention. She was saying that Don was an animal abuser and shouldn’t run a pet shop because Auggie and Buddy were chained out back dying on the scorching driveway with no water. “They’re practically melting on that pavement!” she said as I tried to lighten her mood by spearing her in the crotch with my giant head. She wasn’t having any of it. She was going to bring this whole house of cards down.

Some people in the shop were alarmed and looked angry, but the regulars and the employees were snickering and trying to calm her down. The lady’s voice kept getting louder and more shrill until she shrieked, “THERE ARE TWO BLACK HOT DOGS DYING OUT ON THAT PAVEMENT!!!!!!!!”

When the woman stopped screeching at Don, the shop was completely silent. Don kept checking people out at the counter out but said loudly and clearly towards the back door, “AUGGIE. BUDDY. COME.”

Auggie came running right into the shop, through his adoring fans and right up to the free treat bowl. Buddy came loping up a bit later and meandered over to the water bowl, and started the longest, loudest, messiest, slurping of water by a dog in the history of man-dog history.

Everyone laughed except the lady and the lady’s grim-faced friend at the counter. Don said, “Who’s next in line?”

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Lots of you smugger Bipeds will come into the shop and say that the heat and humidity are way worse where you come from. Don will look at you suspiciously and ask what your pitchfork looks like. Then, if you laugh he’ll ask, “By the way, can you tell me what the heck brimstone is?” That makes all the Bipeds laugh. But if the joke goes over your head, Don will ask who’s next in line.

So don’t get worried about us if you see us in a car in Robinson’s Wharf parking lot. Don takes us on a short swim off the dock, leaves all the windows down, gives us a bowl of water, and sometimes he gets us the starch of the day from the waiter. I do love those steamed baby potatoes!

But we aren’t suffering in the heat. A couple people have come into the restaurant and asked them to call the police because there are dogs out in the car. But we aren’t in distress. We’re pretty happy. Save your emergency calls for dogs who are actually in super-heated cars or otherwise distressed. Don’t mess up those baby potatoes for us. I’m warning you! Come to think of it, why don’t you readers out there get us some starch of the day once in a while? This is a frickin’ dog writing a blog for Dog’s sake! You’d think that, in itself, would be worth some steamed broccoli to you. At the very least some pickled beets or the leftover crusts from your bread basket.

Should any of you folks out there actually get us some food from Robinsons Wharf, you will have my undying adoration and love. And if you come into the shop after getting me food from Robinson’s Wharf, you’d better believe that my gigantic anvil-shaped head will give you the best crotch-spearing you’ve ever had. You have my word on that.

Take care, everyone!

—-Max

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