Pedigree - Part I

It seems the cat is out of the bag.  (Sidebar: I hate that expression.  Not because I have anything against cats.  I actually think cats are hilarious.  Especially the ones on the youtubes.  I just don't know what the cat was doing in the bag in the first place.  Seems cruel.  And I'm against animal abuse of any form.  Except squirrels.  They can get the plague for all I care.  Anyhoo...)

In my last post I revealed that I was, for a short time during my late puppy years, homeless.  I haven't been able to respond to all the emails asking me about this because (a) I'm a dog and my internet access is limited and (b) I'm 91 years old; these old paws can't type like they used to.

The short answer is, it's a long story, but here's the beginning part of it.

I was born into a litter of four mutts in an alley in Park Slope.  My mother herself was of mixed-breed, while my father was a purebred German Shepherd.

He was a strict disciplinarian, quick with a growl but short on patience with my siblings and me.  Seemed he was always "working" and "needed his space."

Despite his stern demeanor, my father was a brilliant comedian.  He could have been one of the biggest stars of Vaudeville, but for two things: (1) the rampant discrimination towards dogs and; (2) the fact that he couldn't talk.  Funny jokes, but zero delivery, right?

Through his diligence, though, he wound up writing for some of the great Borscht belt comedians of his day: Joey Adams, Mort Sahl, Shecky Greene...  Of course, no one knows about it - or pretends not to.  Last thing Buddy Hackett's going to admit is that most of his comedy was written by a German Shepherd.  But whaddya gonna do, right?

Well, what my father did was leave.  He resented my siblings and me, thought we were the ones keeping him from his dream, and left my mother to raise four pups on her own.

She did the best she could, my mother.  And my father?  I never saw him again.

The neighborhood became my surrogate, the restaurants, bars, alleyways, and people of Brooklyn my masters and best friends.  Scraps of food from the co-op.  Free concerts at the conservatory.  Yeah... we survived all right.

And even though I'm enjoying my Golden Years out here in sunny SoCal, those years on the streets of Park Slope are while I'll always be...

-Brooklyn Hayes.

Weekend Thoughts

Hey there blog followers, 

It's been harder than usual for me to get hold of a computer or mobile device lately. 

For one thing, one of my owners is always out with her laptop (grrr). The other one stays home more but has been on a breaking-stuff rampage. 

If you're wondering what that has to do with me, well, lets just say, it affects me in every way. 

Why, you ask? Because whenever something breaks and there's a dog around, we get blamed. 

Dad drops the pasta bowl while sneaking in a few bites? It was the dog. 

Mom drops the baking sheet right out of the oven? It was me. 

Baby decides to poop on the floor? I did it. 

Never mind that I also help clean all this crap up WITH MY VERY OWN TONGUE. 

Anyway, long story short, I'm staying away from his stuff until his fight with gravity is over. 

In the meantime though, I've been listening to radio. NPR more specifically. (Don't get started on congress taking away their funding. I could bite them.)

So this morning they were interviewing this woman Lucy Walker about her documentary WASTELAND, I think it was called. Premiered at Sundance, yadda, yadda. Now, I haven't seen the film yet (just couldn't bring myself to use my owners' credit card to purchase it) and so this might be unfair but what's with the love affair that well-to-do white people have with poverty?

I mean, you should hear this woman wax poetic about how amazing these people who live in a dumpsters in Brazil are. Life has put them in the garbage and they just triumph and move forward and are happy. Gimme a break! There is nothing, let me repeat, nothing poetic about that kind of poverty. Believe me, I know. Don't want to turn this blog into a "poor me" rant but I was homeless for a large part of my childhood; my family was dirt poor for a long time and went without eating for days on end. You endure because you have to; not because you have some kind of revelation about the animal spirit triumphing or how not having possessions frees your mind. 

Just to be clear, this isn't a criticism of the humans living in the dumpster. You do what you gotta do, right?

I'm from Brooklyn. 

Babies... Who needs 'em?

I don't get why humans are so interested in babies.  Any time one of these little bald freaks comes around, I either get pushed outside or poked in the eyeballs.  And then they all laugh and talk about how "cute" the baby is.  You try gettin' poked in the eyeballs, or having your tail tugged on, or taking a few fingers in the nostril.  See how "cute" you think it is then.

Look, I know I'm an old gal, but all I'm saying is, who needs 'em?  Do babies keep watch against intruders?  No.  Do they let you know when the doorbell rings?  Nope.  Do they bring you cool things like sticks and dead squirrels and stuff?  Never!  And I'll tell you something else: you never see a dog upchuck on a person's shoulder, neither.  We take our business outside, where it belongs.

Babies...

GASLAND

So I finally got around to seeing GASLAND while my owners were sleeping late this morning. 

WOW. 

Depressing. So tough to see that cat losing his hair and the horse all skeletal. And of course, the humans with all their headaches and illnesses. 

When is this bull going to stop? I mean, wasn't A CIVIL ACTION also about the effects of  trichloroethylene? And ERIN BROKOVICH? Same thing. (How about that paternity suit on Soderbergh, ha? Who woulda thunk it). 

I'm just saying these bastards are gonna keep doing this over and over unless we collectively unleash our teeth right on their behinds. Otherwise, they'll continue to poison people, buy lobbyists and move the operation somewhere else before you can say Halliburton. 

Damn.