But It's a Dry Heat

Archive for the ‘Retired greyhounds’ Category

Boycott Skechers

What do Skechers and a lamprey have in common?

They both suck.

Here’s my greyhound, weighing in on the controversy (with a little help from me and Photoshop).

In case you don’t know, Skechers is airing a Super Bowl ad that features the loathsome Tucson, Arizona dog track. Using “loathsome” to describe any dog track is, admittedly, like saying shit stinks. All excrement, like all dog tracks, reeks.

But Tucson is one of the worst of the worst. My poor hound came from Tucson, skinny, poorly socialized and with intestinal problems and epilepsy.

In response to protests from concerned citizens, Skechers claims that the ad was meant to be humorous. Hmmm. What next, Skechers? A “funny” advert about dog fighting? Or child abuse?

To get a better look at the hound’s opinion on the matter, click on the image for a larger view.

My earlier rant on greyhound racing.

Greyhound Racing, Still Full of The Suck

Thanksgiving, about a month away at this point, is coming at the speed of … a greyhound.  The Corrales Society of Artists’ Holiday show will take place over the three days after Thanksgiving. After a whole season of doing next to nothing, “artz-wise,” I’ve got to get my ass in gear and make some inventory.

I was also working on edits for my upcoming release, The Canvas Thief. I think, maybe, that’s out of the way for a while. (Editor sent the final version onto where ever final versions go.) And I’m doing a book signing–The Music of Chaos–in Corrales the same weekend as the Holiday Art Show.

In the interest of appearing to have an online pulse, I give you mo’ anti-greyhound racing propaganda. Greyhound racing is a sleezy and cruel business, which, like the carton of curdled milk in the back of your fridge, has long since passed its expiration date.

The accompanying graphic is a preliminary sketch that hasn’t gone anywhere. It has problems with perspective and the race car looks like a Beetle. Does anyone race Beetles? But I got nothin’ else, so I went ahead and inked it in Photoshop.

For information on how you can help end the cruel greyhound racing industry, go to Grey2K USA.

Race Cars, Not Dogs

In which I ensure that I never sell any books to anyone in the greyhound racing industry.* (*No, I’m not calling it a “sport.”) Like I give three shits.

You would think, given the proliferation of casinos and other forms of gambling, that greyhound racing wouldn’t exist at all anymore. Sadly, there are still a few pathetic fools who spent their money at the dog track, meaning there are still thousands of dogs being bred and fed to the gristmill of racing, every year. Obviously, people who work directly in the industry will defend its practices, claiming that reports of cruelty aren’t typical (they are) and that their dogs are feed caviar and steak every night.

More distressing are the turncoats in rescue groups who support and apologize for this corrupt and inhumane industry. They are the ideological equivalent of (more…)

Buy My Book, So I Can Afford Pest Control

A study in lunacy, Kirby-style.

Saturday morning and I’m staring at dirty dishes from breakfast and inventing excuses for not washing them– “It’s against my religion; dish soap causes cancer; dishes come cleaner if food is allowed to set.”

I hear a startled yelp from the bathroom and my husband emerges from our bedroom, toothbrush in hand.

“What wrong?” I ask.

“I was bending over to spit out the toothpaste; I spit, and a centipede came out of the drain.”

This, of course, would have been the end of the story for people in full possession of their sanity. At Casa de Kirby, however, we don’t kill beneficial insects.  Centipedes, who snack on house-destroying termites, fit the definition of “beneficial.”

I hand him a plastic food container. “This should be big enough.”  I scoop an envelope off the table and follow him. Operation Centipede Rescue is on.

In our bathroom, my husband is leaning over the sink. He positions the container, trying to get the centipede to climb in and be relocated.

The centipede putters around the sink, antennae tapping, like a blind, bewildered old man.  (Centipedes don’t have much in the way of eyes; more like a little cluster of nerves that sense light.) Despite being blind, it manages to avoid the container. I try to nudge it into the container with the envelope. Success! Its front end  heads in the right direction.

Now, halfway in the container, the centipede inspects the smooth plastic surface, and then turns around and heads back down the drain.

This is where saner people would have squished it.

Instead I get the long-handle brush that I use to clean the fish aquarium.  Justin and I poke at the obstinate bug and it marches farther down the drain.

This is where saner people would have turned on the water full blast and washed it down the drain.

Instead, Justin sighs and heads out to the workshop.  He returns with a wrench.  “Get me something to catch water,” he says. A minute later and he’s removed the drain trap. (I married McGuyver.)

The fucking centipede is still in the drain, its antennae wiggling inquisitively, but not budging, not even when pushed with the brush.  This goes on for a while until Justin finally gives the drain pipe a hard whack and the obstinate bug tumbles into the plastic bucket below. Soon after, the creepy-crawly is outside (and probably none-too-happy, as it hasn’t rained in six months and centipedes like moisture).

Why bother with all this? Especially for a creature, that by my own admission, is “skin crawling up and down my back” creepy?

Well, there’s plain old karma and mercy.  Then there’s the fact that a six-inch-centipede in a drain, may have originated from said drain, and so flushing it doesn’t exactly keep it from marching right back up the drain. I’d rather not revisit its creepy face when I’m brushing my teeth.

And this was a really big centipede, at least seven inches.  With our luck, it would have clogged the drain.

Besides, squashing big bugs is nasty business.  First there’s the chitinous crack, followed by a spray of gooey ichor.  Next, there’s the splattered bug parts, legs (ugh, hate bug’s legs) and other crunchy bits to remove.

Mercy is just a lot less messy.

I’m Magical. I Made Food.

This is comic gold.  Especially for dog people.

Packing all of your belongings into a U-Haul and then transporting them across several states is nearly as stressful and futile as trying to run away from lava in swim fins.

Casa de Kirby made the move across this big nation twice.  Our dogs, who shall forever be known as the greatest dogs ever, enjoyed the entire adventure.  Of course they did.  They didn’t have to worry about finding a rental housing with two dogs, one quite large.  They didn’t worry about starting a new job in a strange city.  They weren’t bewildered by strange regional vernacular.  I.e., the practice of calling a pickup truck a “rig.”  Que?

Me?  My ulcers had ulcers.

(Pictured: Our current grey and his birthday present, Mr. Squirrel.)

Good Thing He’s Cute

After spending the morning staring at the computer screen at work, wondering, “What the hell is it I do I here?” I’m back home.  And staring at the computer screen.

My faithful greyhound enters the office, walking carefully over the saltillo tiles.   He makes it to the area rug, sighs in relief, and plops down next to my chair.

“Now this is nice,” I think.  “Exactly why I have a dog.  Companionship.”

A few seconds later he starts farting.  Big dog.  Big, fetid, meaty farts.

I grab a sketchpad and wave it around to clear the air every time he lets one fly.  After about a dozen repetitions of this, Mr. Sensitive gets offended and leaves.

He doesn’t, however, have the good grace to takes the stench with him.

Greyhounds are better seen than smelled.