The Photogenic Pup
Here’s Samson. He is now about 14 weeks old. He’s a handsome man. He is starting to learn little things like how to ask to go outside, fetching a stick and (as the picture above might tell you) doing a bit more swimming.
He’s turning into a good dog. Not as good as Chili, but he’s learning.
Greater Than a Throw Pillow and Less Than a Child
Tonight while hanging out with Jessie and some friends who have dogs at the dog park, I was told that we were invited to a dog birthday party. The owner of the dog (who seems like a perfectly sweet and nice person) was renting out a piece of land in Jackson County and going to have a ton of dogs at the place.
That’s right, a birthday party for dogs.
Don’t get me wrong. I like dogs. I even like the poorly behaved dogs and the emotionally needy asshole dogs that I know. But at the end of the day I know that my dogs are dogs. They don’t have thumbs. They are afraid of thunder. They are great companions, but people they are not.
I get why people treat dogs like children; in fact I’m seeing it right now with our new puppy Samson. When you first get a dog, it is exactly like having a child. It needs help with everything and you end up a prisoner in your own home dealing with shit and piss. The love that you receive from the animal in return is pretty nice, but in essence they are children in that moment. But every time I want to go overboard with my affection for my dogs I do have to remind myself that they simply aren’t people.
I hope that this doesn’t make me seem cold or callous. I’m really not trying to be. I just don’t think that dogs should have birthday parties. They aren’t children, and I don’t know how else to put it.
If the doggie birthday bash is one extreme, I see the other extreme daily. In the meth house just up the street from me the people who live there have a really cute boxer/pit bull mixture (imagine that- white trash in Western NC having a boxer/pit). From what I can tell the poor dog just sits chained up outside of their house under a tree all day long. Nobody plays with it. Nobody takes it for walks. Nobody does anything but to tell the dog to stop whining for attention when the owner is outside. The poor dog must have Chili and Samson, because I know that it can see Jessie and I playing with our dogs, walking them and making them companions. I feel so bad for that dog, but I don’t know what I can do to help it.
I sometimes want to go yell at the meth addict assholes and remind them that their dog isn’t just a decoration. It isn’t some prop to reinforce your lifestyle or self-image.
So there’s my rant on how to treat dogs. I hope people read this and see my point. I hope anyone thinking of owning a dog who stumbles upon this blog will take my advice- treat your dog like something in between a throw pillow and a baby. That’s the best thing that you can do.
Until tomorrow, be good.
The Great Outdoors and a Little Country Music
Like most people (I hope), I’m pretty influenced by the things I choose to read, listen to and watch on television or DVD. Recently, Jessie and I have been on a Ken Burns kick, watching all of his films via our Netflix subscription (we’re married; those things come with the license now). As of right now we are headlong into watching The National Parks: America’s Best Idea and I’m utterly inspired to experience the great outdoors as a result.
Wait, what was that?
That’s right, I’m starting to get into the idea of being outside (something I have hated my entire life). I want to go on hikes, long walks, camping trips and even to a few of the National Parks that I’ve seen in the first two discs of the documentary.
I don’t know if this is a passing interest or something that will sustain itself inside of me, but for the last two nights Jessie and I have taken our dogs on the three mile Occanalufte River Trail at the base of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park and I’ve loved every minute of it. I’ve watched the river cut thought the mountains and seen trees form a canopy over our heads. I’ve seen giant mountains that create their own weather, and stood for just a moment with my mouth agape, as if I were some flatlander who has never seen these things that actually were around me for all of these times. There’s something about all of this wonderfulness around me that is startling and makes me regret never noticing it before.
Tonight was a normal walk on the trail. Jessie and I were walking a bit fast because we were losing daylight, but just off the trail in the river a solitary old man stood fly fishing. He was new at the sport, according to Jessie who pointed out his neon orange fishing line skimming the water, but it looked so tranquil. I can’t imagine ever doing something that seemed so calming. I decided then and there that I needed to attempt this one day. I could imagine the water surrounding me, alone out there in the midst of the river, flicking my wrist and flinging the line. Just me and the water, first the line goes to the bank of the river and then rides the current down to the front of me. I hold the fly in the water, and then I repeat. It’s freaking zen watching it, and I am dying to attempt it.
But the real highlight of the walk was just as we came off the trail- there was a giant elk standing a little over 15 feet away from us. Our older dog Chili stood in front of Jessie, the new puppy and I and watched the elk quietly eating grass. He posed no threat, but my dog wasn’t taking chances because he’s a good boy. I couldn’t believe that it was standing that close to me. The closest I’ve been to an elk previously was watching Chevy Chase punch the Wally World mascot in National Lampoon’s Vacation. Needless to say, it was amazing.
I think (and hope) the great outdoors and I are like country music for me. When I was a kid, my grandpa always listened to WWNC (long before it was a bastion for right wing morons like Matt Mittan) and sang along with the country music that was played on the station. I remember making fun of him about how hokey the songs were. I vowed to never listen to country music. But now I play the stuff every day (along with a lot of other things). I have a soft spot for most country music that happened between 1950 and 1987. It’s never amazing music, but it is always fun.
Maybe mountaintops, waterfalls and vistas could be Randy Travis for me. I certainly hope so.
Until tomorrow,
Be good.
The weekend is over.
I could look at my less than substantive updates over the last few days as a case of quantity not being quality, but instead I think I’m just going to say that at least I am thinking about this blog.
Last night I went to a Fourth of July party with all of my friends. Hot dogs were eaten, fireworks were shot, and bourbon was ingested. Life is good. Above is a picture from the party.
Good times, people.
Back to work tomorrow, and back to the cold, dark reality that weekends full of new puppies and lazy days with the wife and friends are sadly not the norm.
Another Picture of the Puppy
I never wanted to be a dog person. I kind of hate that I am, but I am so into my dogs, both the large one (Chili) and the new one (which we are still calling Samson), so who knows what road to mediocrity these dogs are taking me down.
I’m just adding a picture of the dog because I really don’t feel like updating today, but to not update would be to break my “update this blog every day between now and my birthday” credo that I’m currently operating upon.
I promise to write something long before tomorrow.
Meet the new addition
That little yellow speck beneath Chili is tentatively named Samson. He’s just over 6 weeks old, and weighs nine and a half pounds. He’s a good dog.
I’ll write more about him tomorrow, right now we’re getting to know each other.
Big Fat Fatty Bugg versus Husky Bugg
I almost didn’t make it.
A day after my bold self-proclamation that I would update this blog every day until my thirty-third birthday, I almost was scared away from opening up a Microsoft word document and creating this entry that I’m writing (I hope you like it when you read it, by the way. I have no way of knowing if this entry is going to be a good one because as of the time I am writing this-which is in the past to you, the reader- I am unaware of where my ramblings will take me. Also since you are reading this entry in the future, I hope it is a good future devoid of mutants and aliens killing humans, but just in case this is being read in a future full of aliens and mutants killing humans I’d just like to salute my mutant/alien overlords) right now (well, it’s the past to you, but I digress).
Liz the G.O.A.T.*
Dear readers of The Bugg Blog, what you are about to witness in the coming weeks is a torrent of sophomoric humor, witty insights, daily bullshit, odes to obscure music and even a few paragraphs about my wife every now and then all because of the pretty girl in the picture (the one on the right). Her name is Liz, and she’s started something very big. What has she started? I hear you asking through the tubes that make up the internet, and the answer can be found in this entry, just after the mucky muck about the last few days of my life. So read on!
Screw St. Paddy…
It’s Frank’s birthday!
Just in case I haven’t lost all of my street credibility (I am after all three generations deep in gangstadom), I tend to shy away from big, dumb organized drinking fests like St. Patrick’s Day in favor of a more dignified, solemn and respectful day of celebration- my cat Frank’s birthday (he’s two today!).
Meet Sebastian.
So I think I sort of have a new dog.
Back in ’08, we had the meth-addict neighbor Martin. He lived across the street and did weird shit like mow our grass without asking if we wanted to pay him to do it and run extension cords across the street to steal our power.
Martin had two dogs; a long haired black dog named Buddy and a really pretty brown dog named Sebastian. When Martin was kicked out of his house last year, he (from what I heard) took his dogs and let them out on the parkway. We never saw or heard from them after that.
Cut to last week and while she is on her way out the door to work Jessie notices a brown dog in our yard. She tells me that it is a stray and to be wary of it when I go outside with Chili.
Around lunch I walk out to check the mail and there the dog is. It’s nice and friendly, if not a bit underfed. It’s Sebastian. He has no tags and keeps walking across the street to Martin’s old house. He runs and plays with Chili a bunch and comes to me when I call him by his name.
I talk to Jessie when she gets home and she agrees that it is probably Sebastian. My neighbors aren’t sure about where he came from and neither am I.
So now, our pack has grown. I wonder if it will ever stop. Jessie, Chili, Spooky, The Peach, Frank, Moe and Sebastian: that’s a mouthful.
