A Bit of History-Part Two

I think ancient Egyptians had it right: if you killed a dog (alas, even a cat) you yourself could be executed.

Dogs were thought to be descended from Anubis, god of the underworld.  Ironic, since the cats of Rome are the ones who inhabit most of that underground city.  The Pharaohs gave their dogs silver necklaces to wear, and always included them in the family portraits.

Today, in Rome, some still wear fancy collars and those family photos still include the dog. 

But, what ever happened to the reverence of legal action where the common dog is concerned? 

Instead of S.P.Q.R.…

 it’s S.P.C.A.

Where’s the phone?

Chow.

A Bit of History-Part One

It is thought that dogs were first domesticated 50,000 years ago.  Anyway, that’s when we began to show up on the walls of caves in various shades of primitive paint.

Like our men, we were hunters.  Dog attached himself to man for food; man attached himself to dog for the same reason.  We were good at hunting.  Watch and learn.  Men did.  Soon dogs were no longer hunting but staying in camp reaping the rewards of a well taught lesson, and entertaining the ranks, of course.  Dogs are, after all, built for entertainment these days.

Enter, the Jack Russell:

The Labradoodle (simply the name curls the lip in laughter, no?):

The Hairless Chihuahua:OK….so this one demonstrates man’s sense of humor. 

But, you follow me right? 

Next time someone refers to you, if you are a dog, as a lazy, good-for-nothing moocher, remind them that they would still be hunting solo with hand-carried spears, instead of evolving into packs and becoming a species success story.  And ask them to pass the treats.

Chow.

Dyslexic Dog

I am a dog.  And, I think I may be dyslexic.

When I look in the mirror I see God.

                                                  What do you see?

                                                                                         Chow.

Hungry

I have never eaten my fill. 

I have eaten my food, my friend’s food, my people’s food…but I have never eaten my fill.

There is something about the canine system that defies satiation.  The pipes simply do not allow it.  It is a long, desperate, hollow road; a bag-less vacuum.

In response, I graze throughout the day like a common farm animal: a raspberry here, a low tomato there, certain parts of a piece of ladies underwear…the soul (er–sole) of a Ferragamo.

The behavior is not without repercussion.  I have been frequently stuck in the dog door leading to the terrazzo.  My sweaters fit like a shrunken glove, and I sometimes get the feeling that the people who stare are not observing the mirth of a fun loving small dog, so much as the girth.

I know why the fat are frequently jolly. 

They’re full, no?

The quest continues…

Chow.  Forever, chow.

The 515

This is my car:It’s a Cinquecento, made by Fiat.  It’s of the old variety: smaller than small, made long before rules and regulations began trying to save people from themselves.

It fits anywhere on the Roman streets which is very important.  if you’re lucky enough to have a permit to park within the city, space is always an issue.  It’s important to be able to walk in reasonable time to your destination once your car is properly situated.

The Cinquecento is just zippy enough to blow my ears back when the windows are down (and they’re always down in the summer), but not fast enough to make my stomach turn.  Yet, it does turn heads.  Because it’s cute.  Just like a certain small dog.

Small, cute things always turn heads, no?

Diminutive dogs and the Cinquecenti…a head turning combo.

Chow.

The Church Turns

Cats…again.  Now it’s Pope Benedict.  In what I can only hope is a move unsanctioned by the church, the Pope has taken a cat.

A cat.

Granted, it was on a trial basis.  It seems that while visiting Australia, the locals determined his live of the feline and loaned him said creature.

Thank God…literally…he doesn’t actually keep a cat at the Vatican.  they breed like rabbits, you know.  Look at any Roman ruin.  Imagine the Pieta with the addition of a life-size tabby straddling Mary’s shoulder.  A cat standing guard at the tomb of St. Peter?

What kind of spiritual leader prefers cats to dog, I ask you?

I wonder if they have dogs on the West Bank?

Chow.

BLAH

Someone wise once said: An effective way to deal with predators is to taste terrible.

I have to tell you, there are few things that cause me to gag.  Slugs are meaty.  I imagine they might go well with garlic and a little butter.  Ants are fresh and lemony.  Grasshoppers taste a little grassy to tell you the truth, and they’re gooey, with a bit of crunch, but not bad.(make sure you pull the legs off first or they’ll stick in your throat).

Now, none of these things is particularly pretty, yet they have the redeeming feature of being attractive to the palette.

Enter the beautiful butterfly. Lithe, agile, and colorful, it nearly shouts: taste me!

Well, don’t. It’s a bitter pill…literally.  Like a well-coiffed terrier: attractive to the eye but nippy.

It’s frequently all in the packaging, no?

Chow.

Cats

Did I mention that anytime I post anything about cats, I get as many hits on my blog in a few hours as I normally do in a day?

It’s yet another species slur as far as I’m concerned.

Do dogs not inspire?  Do they not compel people to google and search?  And why not?

Is it because cat people sit idley by the computer with nothing better to do than surf the web for the antics of the cats they love, simply because the cats they love are immobile, sloth-like on a feather cushion, whiling away the hours of daylight only to become roaming maniacs at night?

Surely dog owners are in the park, on the other end of a game of fetch, or hiking with their favorite St. Bernard, trusty cask within reach, no?

What cat can serve up a shot of brandy, I ask you?

Ever hike with a cat?  Ever tempt a feline to fetch?  Ha!

You cat people need to get out more.

Go get a dog.

Chow.

Burn Up?

In the interest of definition and proper usage, today we examine the difference between the English phrases “burn up” and “burn down”.

Being Roman, and a dog, I am concerned, of course, with language…its meaning and its origin.  Why use “burn down” as opposed to “burn up”?

The house burned down.  The trash burned up (only in third world countries…).

The difference in usage?  It depends where the fire starts.  In the attic: the house burned down.  On the ground level…it burned up.  This according to a local Roman firefighter.

Historically? To burn down was to burn until the fire becomes feeble and in want of fuel.  To burn up: to take strong hold of a combustible material.  Huh?  Who would do that?

Personally, I like the phrase in its more metaphorical sense: to irritate or annoy.

Ah…the definition of cats.

Chow.