Gryffyd Eamonn Dempsey » Dogs

Spring is here

Gryffyd — Sun, 25 Apr 2010 21:22:32 +0000

Dogs lolling in the shade of the dogwood tree:

Reminds me of one of my favorite poems in the Poetry in Motion series on TriMet.

Monetizing the Rapture

Gryffyd — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 20:04:40 +0000

This seems like taking unfair advantage.

Not a fan

Gryffyd — Fri, 14 Aug 2009 17:32:21 +0000

The phrase “second chance” occurs four times in this article. How many second chances did Vick ever give any of those dogs he tortured to death?

Dogs of Portland

Gryffyd — Fri, 23 Jan 2009 22:31:53 +0000

The Oregon Humane Society knows we are suckers and so when they sent pictures of this litter of puppies:

we immediately agreed to foster a pair of them for the couple of weeks it’ll take before they’re old enough to go back to the shelter and be adopted. Right now it is almost certain that Mrs The Fyd is rolling around on the floor with them, the only sound coming from her a high-pitched “SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEE”. I hope Vinnie and Boris don’t die of jealousy.

In other OHS news, my pickup truck has crossed the threshold from crappy but reliable to crappy and a money pit. So I’ll be donating that to OHS soon.

Raising the bar

Gryffyd — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 18:01:02 +0000

Congratulations to President-elect Obama. While his is an inspiring achievement for many, let us not forgot that for others his example is less salutary. I am not speaking here of his political rivals. Instead I think we should pity first-generation children of immigrants, to whom he now represents an almost insurmountable set of expectations.

Also, Obama has a particular example to set for the nation. He would do well to pick a shelter dog when fulfilling his promise to his daughters.

Because we are suckers

Gryffyd — Thu, 29 May 2008 19:24:56 +0000

We are now fostering a golden retriever/cocker spaniel mix named Samantha Jo. That is a stupid name, so I have renamed her Jo Jo Peanut Butter Pants. She is the sweetest little dog who has some unfortunate allergies that the medical folks at the Oregon Humane Society are trying to pin down. Meanwhile, to get her away from the stress and sadness of the shelter and to help her heal so she can be adopted, we are housing her with our dogs. She gets along great with all creatures, it seems, even Boris the Intense Lab, except when he’s being an asshole. When he forgets that he has to be a jerk, they play well together.

Of course, not only do we have three dogs to deal with now, but Guest Dog is coming for a short stay today. So four dogs and five cats (all of whom are wondering why the fuck the humans keep letting more dogs in the house) and two humans will fight for their share of resources, and since the little African Dwarf Frog died the other day, Jesús the Siamese Fighting Fish is all alone again, the only resident of the house insulated by a thin wall of acrylic from all the fur, the fur.

Various

Gryffyd — Thu, 24 Jan 2008 19:43:17 +0000

I have learned from more than one source that dogs’ paws can smell like Fritos. I would assess this for myself, but I have more than once seen my dogs step blithely into large and avoidable dog poop piles.

Yesterday evening we passed the crest of Belmont as it dips over the shoulder of Mt. Tabor, and there on the corner stood a boy, about twelve or so, shouting “Here boy, c’mere!” As we drew closer he said to me, “Have you seen a black Lab.” Now, I am not the type to mock a child calling for his lost dog, but I was tempted to indicate the two black Labs tethered to me by nylon leashes. One black Lab who was attempting to jump on the boy and be his new best friend. I indicated I had not seen his dog but would return if I did. Just after that I heard an adult shouting what I believe was the news that the dog was found and the boy should return home. I hope so.

Of the 5,326 songs I have loaded on my ipod, the first ten that showed up when I just hit shuffle are:

“Jimi”, Butthole Surfers, Locust Abortion Technicians

“From a Buick 6″, Bob Dylan, Highway 61 Revisited

“Against”, Sepultura, Against

“Scrawled in Sap”, 16 Horsepower, Sackcloth ‘n Ashes

“Young, Fast Iranians,” The F.U.’s, Do We Really Want to Hurt You

“Looking for the One”, The Wildhearts, Riff After Riff

“When She Begins”, Social Distortion, Somewhere Between Heaven and Hell

“Cyborg Assault”, Bill Laswell, Sacred System

“Introduction (Part 2)”, The Delta 72, The Sould of a New Machine

“The Saint”, Orbital, In Sides

A Shadow From the Past

Gryffyd — Thu, 17 Jan 2008 01:03:11 +0000

Yesterday evening the power went out for about a half-hour. Only a few hours earlier I had been walking with the dogs through a several-blocks-long blackout and felt relief when I turned a corner and saw I had reached the border of restored power and that our house was lit. Whatever was wrong in that area had moved on to ours. Now, a few minutes of reading by a camping lantern is no hardship, and I am well aware of how the lack of power causes real suffering in less fortunate parts. Still I felt annoyed. What kind of a power outage was this, with no wind and the temperature probably barely below freezing, if that? I suspect the power company was involved in some manner of current-interrupting maintenance and couldn’t be bothered with notifying any residents. There’s goes my self-regard as an opponent of the conspiracy theorists.

Just after the power was restored something outside exploded, probably a streetlamp. This deeply frightened Boris, who hates fireworks and probably expected the barrage to continue all night. He lay on the sofa, a cowering and very flat dog, only his mournful brown eyes moving as we mocked him. It took some petting and the lure of a bouncing racquet ball to get him to forget the recent horror and get back to being his useful pushy self. Thankfully, because when there are exploding fireworks in the area, there’s no way he’s going outside and I always worry his bladder will burst during the night.

Hippo Noo Yeer

Gryffyd — Mon, 31 Dec 2007 18:59:04 +0000

This story was brought to my attention by valued reader and commenter Indanth. It is an uplifting note on which to end the year. And more reason why one shouldn’t hate Gaiman just because he’s an insufferably talented bastige.

Here’s wishing a happy and healthy and serene New Year to all.

Silver bells hangin’ on a string

Gryffyd — Mon, 26 Nov 2007 22:23:22 +0000

We had a house guest this Thanksgiving weekend just past — Camas, a husky-mix with one blue eye and one brown eye. Camas is a nice dog with a dumb name. Camas does not like other dogs much, so when his owners want to board him, he stays with us instead of at the dog care facility Mrs The Fyd’s employers run. Camas does not mind our dogs too much, and seems to not hate staying with us, although he seems to find many of our habits strange, if not blasphemous.

He also gives the appearance of being unnervingly smart. The last night he stayed with us, he had me out of bed in the middle of the night several times, letting him outside, giving him treats, feeding him kibble, all in a vain effort to stop him from looming over me in the dark, what with his wolf-silhouette and growling and all. Finally I bottled it and woke up Mrs The Fyd and whined about my fears of being bitten in my sleep and how the dog wouldn’t leave me alone. Yes, I bailed out and let her deal with it. Then again, that was appropriate; it’s because of her employment that the dog was in our bedroom in the middle of the night, manipulating me with his weird eyes. I mean, fuck it, I don’t bring my work home with me. Notice that neither of our own dogs lifted an eyelid to help me against the canine fiend. I doubt there was even a hitch to their snoring during this trying period of my life.

So getting up in the black of night to deal with my wussiness was probably annoying for my dear wife. Not nearly as annoying as having to hear Chuck Berry sing My Ding-a-Ling over and over and over again. I’ve had that song in my head all day.