Sam

My dog, a lab, is mostly manic

With only occasional bouts of panic

At thunderstorms and fireworks

Set off at night by thoughtless jerks.

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By nature she is always happy

And even when I’m feeling crappy,

At the door, my ass a draggin’

She greets me with her tail a waggin’.

 

She seems to find no imposition,

My sometimes surly disposition

And meets me still with love and gratitude,

Despite my curt and sour attitude.

 

Those times when I’m not glad to be me,

She is never sad to see me

Reminding me when this occurs,

To be less like me, and more like her.

 

 

 

 

 

The Salt Life

Dear Buffy,

I hope you are well recovered from the debilitating anxiety you suffered over the recent Presidential Election.  The potential loss of your domestic help must have left you frantic.  I’m so happy you were able to recruit suitable Canadian replacements. Do keep in mind they will require less food and they will bruise ever so easily. Any-who, I ‘m just dropping a line informing you of the tremendous success of my recent boating adventure.

sea-ray

Although nothing like the yachts in our native Kennebunkport; I found passage on the most adorable little dingy, crewed by authentic locals. You would have been thrilled.  There was a former Sommelier and his operatic wife, a television personality and her photographer, a wonderfully ethic Italian restaurateur and his spouse, and an old man and his younger companion whom, I can only assume was his daughter.  The entire outing was a farcical charade if ever there were such a thing.

The crew arrived toting their belongings like the porters on our Nairobi safari.  Apparently their supplies consisted of inexpensive cheesy comestibles and cheap domestic sparkly because the entire group were either opening bottles of bubbly or spending inordinate amounts of time in the bathroom.  They were as giddy as orphans on Charity Day at the country club pool.

We were barely under way when a group of them (to the dismay of the First Mate and completely against previous instructions) were swilling beer and congregating on the swim deck to smoke something the locals call “cigareets”.  Eventually the Sommelier became so inebriated, he fell over-board.  The poor fellow was much distraught and had to be restrained, tied to a paddle board and floated several yards behind us on a tether.

The afternoon was waning and so we headed back to dock with the paddle board in tow.  Now that I think of it, it did greatly resemble a piece of bait tied to a lure.  I suppose then not too surprising that the board and its occupant were attacked by what was later determined to be either a pod of deranged dolphins or the most effeminate swarm of sharks I have ever seen. At any rate, the poor drunken Sommelier was lost.  His wife, upon waking from her nap, was inconsolable until an unopened bottle of champagne was discovered.  All in all, the day was a ripping good bash about.

Please give my love to Grand Papa and inquire about an advance on my allowance.  It seems the television is out in the Bentley, so the purchase of new transport is an unexpected expense.  Cheers to you and the gang.  I’ll be home in time for the Spring Regatta.

Best wishes,

Skippers.

How Not to Succeed in Business

My wife still believes anything can be accomplished with hard work and perseverance, poor naive soul. Many years my junior, she has not yet come face to face with age discrimination.   I on the other hand, have come to terms with some very harsh realities indeed.  But over time I realized I needed a different perspective.  Although achieving success is usually a product of determination, it occurred to me, advancement could also be accomplished through the process of elimination.  If there is only one horse in the race, it’s much easier to pick the winner.

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At this point, I would like to disavow any implication of mental instability.  I have been tested several times with only inconclusive results. Sure there is a history of mass-murder on my mother’s side, but since the execution of the mentally disabled is a violation of the Geneva Convention, I can only assume a state of complete lucidity at the time of her demise. But, I digress.

Having been passed over for promotion several times by clearly inferior co-workers, I decided to thin the field of competition.  My sights first fell on my cube-mate Ron.  Ron named me Professor Evil since discovering my penchant for writing hate mail to the kids I support through Children International.  Who was he to judge?  He doesn’t know me!  But I knew him. Yes, I knew Ron alright.  I knew about his love for handguns and Bowie knives.  I had just finalized plans for an overly elaborate clown-suited home invasion and disemboweling when Ron accepted a position at a different company.  I wasn’t disappointed to see him go, one down. Two days later, I decided I had expended too much effort on my plan to simply let it go to waste, so I went ahead with it anyway.

Rex was the next to fall prey to my cunning machinations.  He was the office manager, an honorific title at best.  His position on the organization chart fell somewhere between supervisor and lackey.  In addition to a name common to Labradors, he also shared their fascination for tennis balls.  He kept a bright yellow one on his desk for strengthening his grip. He had the habit of bouncing it on the floor as he emerged from his office periodically throughout the day like a deranged cuckoo with his ludicrous announcements.  I dispatched him by taking his ball and throwing it out into the parking lot.  He immediately ran out to retrieve it and was promptly run over by a UPS truck.  It was almost too easy.

Bill I eliminated with African ear mites placed into his headphones.  The deadly parasites, purchased from a leather fetish nun (whom I know strictly on a professional level and recently returned from Botswana), burrowed deep into his brain and eviscerated his frontal lobe.  He went unnoticed for three days, sitting at his desk cursing at himself and asking, “Where the hell am I?”  It was only when he fell from his chair that anyone realized his pathetic condition.  The parasites went completely undetected during his autopsy and his death was ruled as stress related to a recent Volkswagen rebuild gone horribly awry.

Tom went with an arsenic laced Beef on Weck.  Jim starved himself to death as I methodically and subliminally convinced him, the only safe consumables were frozen prunes and water biscuits.  Mike, my final competitor, succumbed to carbon monoxide poisoning while trying to add yet another cargo attachment to his already over-burdened motorcycle.  I swear I had nothing to do with this one.  The investigating officer could find no good reason as to why the engine was running with the garage door down.  Mike’s wife eventually informed him, in a suspiciously fake British accent, “He just liked the smell of it, Gov’ner”

At last, I was at the top of the promotion list.  At the peak of my potential, where my years of experience in employee relations and dedication to my craft marginally suggested I should be.  Unfortunately, the recent lack of manpower had resulted in the loss of several lucrative contracts resulting in a terrible third quarter revenue report.  The remainder of my group, namely me, was laid off.  Furthermore, I have recently been denied employment at several establishments due to lack of current references.