Little Dog, Big Payoff

During our evening stroll, Bandit and I walked by many, many light poles plastered with posters calling attention to a little lost dog named Max. Max is 12 years old, and I’m not certain of the breed, but I believe he’s a purebred something. He’s a lap dog – the size I usually refer to as a “practice” dog, because it’s the size you get and practice on until you’re ready for a real dog. But I digress.

Poor Max’s owners were obviously in distress about his disappearance. The poster not only gave the particulars about Max (size, identifying marks, collar information) but also additional detailed information: location where last seen, date last seen, time last seen (noon), Max’s response to strangers, etc. It was apparent that the owners kept close tabs on Max, and were desperate to get him back.

Reward information was prominently featured on the poster. The owners made it clear that no questions would be asked of the person returning Max to them. But the startling part was the amount of the reward: $2,000. Not two hundred. Two thousand.

Now I could get into a discussion of Max’s age and how many good years would he really have left, and divide that by the $2,000 investment in the reward. It does give an idea of Max’s perceived value. But that would be another digression and I’m not great at math in the first place.

Instead, it made me wonder: what would I do if I saw Max trotting down the street and I was able to get him to come to me? (For the purposes of this hypothetical scenario, I have to assume that Bandit would not behave in his normal rabid dog fashion and growl and snarl and make like he was going to be all over Max’s shit. That would scare Max away, and leave me without a hypothetical scenario.)

Say I have Max in my protective custody and I call his owners. There is much rejoicing on the other end of the line. I give them directions to my house, and they are there in an instant. There are kisses and licks and a very happy reunion. OK, fine.

Now it comes to reward time. They are ready to write me a check for $2,000. Here’s what I’ve been pondering all evening: I haven’t done $2,000 worth of work. I saw a lost dog, picked it up, took it home, and called its owners. End of story. Would I be OK with taking the reward money?

See, I think for me, it’s the amount that really throws me off. I don’t think I’d think twice if the reward amount was $200. Sure, I’d take it. But $2,000? That’s pretty big money for a little dog, and very little effort on my part.

I don’t have a moral to this story because I don’t have Max. I’m pretty close to broke, and could sure use $2,000. But could I take that amount of money for such a simple act? I’m pretty sure I know what I would do.

What would you do?

Auntie Most Evil Needs to Pinch Some Cheeks!

So, here’s the deal. My Evil Twin JoJo (she’s the Evil One, I’m the Most Evil) refuses to fly out here to spend some time with me because she’s afraid to fly with her now not-so-newborn baby. (Clarissa is almost two years old.) I’m not exactly sure what horrors she envisions, but I assume it has a lot to do with death and destruction and things being out of her control. It could involve planes splitting in half in mid-air with Clarissa being sucked out of her arms and into the Great Beyond. Kind of like “Lost.” Perhaps it’s a kidnapping, where Clarissa is the pawn in complex global terrorist plot. Or maybe JoJo thinks the airport personnel will ask her to check the baby along with her luggage. I’ve long since given up on trying to figure out why JoJo won’t bring her family to visit.

I’ve not given up, however, on my attempts to get them out here. I’ve resorted to all sorts of evil tactics as a way of coercing her to pack up her family and come out for a nice spring visit.

The first thing I tried was to send JoJo a list, seemingly generated by Clarissa, of the “Top Ten Reasons Why Little Evil Twin Should Visit.” I tried peer pressure: “All the other kids have gone on airplanes.” I tried an educational approach: “If I don’t expand my horizons soon, then I will end up working at Wendy’s for the rest of my life.” I tried flattery: “I want to follow in the footsteps of my lovely, intelligent, and adventuresome mommy who has traveled the globe.” And of course guilt is a big one: “I want to see where I was conceived.” (You see, Clarissa was conceived while JoJo was in town for my wedding. This, of course, was when JoJo was willing to travel.)

Cute, but it didn’t work. No plane tickets were booked.

Next, I sent Clarissa a darling outfit appropriate for a visit to the West: a pair of blue pants with suede fringe along the side seams, and a matching red Western-styled top complete with an embroidered horse. This was accompanied by a note – again, ostensibly from Clarissa to JoJo – that took some liberties with the lyrics to “Home on the Range.” It read, in part:

Dear Mommy,
Now I finally have an outfit that makes me feel home, home on the range.
You don’t need to give me a home where the buffalo roam.
However, I would like to see where the deer and the antelope play.
I understand that out West one seldom hears a discouraging word.
Oh, and also, the skies are not cloudy all day.

You’d think that would tug on JoJo’s heart strings, now wouldn’t you? Nope. No tickets booked.

Here’s my latest ploy. I purchased yet another darling little summer outfit for Clarissa. I will send half of it to her. I will let her know that she can claim the other half in person.

Will hard-hearted JoJo relent?

Only time will tell…

Wisenheimer Weimaraner

How does one start their first blog entry? The first entry is the first entry, and there’s no going back. It sets a theme, a tone, and a tenor for the blog and it gives the reader a set of expectations for all future blog entries.

So, as I contemplated potential topics for my first blog entry, I felt that the following story encompassed all that I needed. The reader will leave with an understanding as to why I am considered the most evil twin. And that, I think, is a successful start to my blog.


My dog, Bandit, is a creature of habit. We walk at least a mile twice a day, no matter what – rain or snow, bitter cold or blazing hot. He also enjoys the regularity of heading north for our morning walk, and south for our evening walk. He likes variety, but on his own terms.

Thus, our evening walk began with the march southward. As we were halfway up the third block, I spotted all that I detest: the bitchy girl (with whom I’ve previously had a less than positive interaction), the unleashed male Weimaraner in her yard, and the man who lives next door and who has his nose in everyone’s business and who makes rude noises when I walk by. So, I will admit that my hackles were already up before anything actually happened.

Bandit and I were a couple of houses away from the girl when the Weimaraner saw us. He ran towards us… as has happened before. I reined Bandit in on his leash because I know that this is the worst possible scenario for him: an unleashed dog (he hates that others have their freedom while he’s shackled to me), a male (a potential threat to Bandit’s masculinity), and one that is running towards us like a latte-colored bullet.

I prepared myself for potential conflict and wondered if I would have it in me to kick another dog – even one that was attacking Bandit. Fortunately, this confrontation ended with some stiff-legged genital sniffing and a few low growls. I noted that – once again – the girl did nothing to stop her dog. She calmly walked by me.

“Sorry about that.”

I gave her The Look.

The Look released her Inner Bitchiness, which is actually not difficult because I believe it’s constantly simmering just below the surface.

“Oh, it’s not the end of the world,” Satan’s spawn tossed out as she walked toward the dog who was now several houses further down the block and calmly ignoring her.

I had a choice. I could let my head explode, as I thought it very well might. I could kill her. Or, I could unleash my self-righteousness.

The first option was out. It was not my time to go. The second was tempting, but Mr. Rude Noises was a witness.

“There are no bad dogs,” I taunted, “only bad owners. And see? Your dog isn’t even listening to you.”

“It’s not even my dog,” she retorted, turning her back to me so that I could see the horns growing out of the back of her head.

“And you think that makes it OK?” returned I.

I longed for option #2. Instead, we kept walking. And my insides kept boiling. I ran the scene in my head again. And again. And again.

Must. Kill. Bitchy. Woman.

All the while Bandit happily sniffed and peed, the episode long since forgotten in his fuzzy little doggie mind. He squatted for a nice, healthy doggie dump. And THAT is when the Most Evil Twin in me came out.

I picked it up in a plastic bag. It’s the law. Now, normally I like to find a dumpster as fast as I can to relieve myself of this warm, smelly bag of poo. But this time, I held on to it, walking, and formulating a plan. An evil plan.

I would return in the darkness later that evening. I would smear the poo all over her front steps, where she’d have to work hard to get it off. Most importantly, I would leave a note, so there would be no mistaking who left her the gift. The note would read:

“It’s not the end of the world.

It’s not my poo.

Oh yes… but it is my responsibility.”

Ah, yes, it would be a valuable lesson for her. She would see the light. She would one day thank me for teaching her this lesson in humility. And I could release this hatred from my heart.

I wanted to do this with all of my evil little heart. But I had to ask myself if I really wanted to be this kind of person. (I struggle with this question a lot.)

That bag of poo sat out on my back porch all night long. I ultimately decided that no, I did not want to be that kind of person. I’m sure I’m better off for it.

So I did what any self-respecting Evil Twin would do… I threw the stale bag of poo away.

And then I called Animal Control to report an unleashed aggressive Weimaraner.