Life has been very good this year. I did not get bitten by any rattlesnakes. I did, however, get to spend some time with my friend Suzanne and her greyhounds Angel, Willow, Druscilla, and Breeze (she is my sweetums, by the way). I think I got to stay at the hotel because of my dad, but I'm not sure. He's kind of slow to walk right now and he's not eating any chikkin or steak or hamburgers, which means there are no crumbs for a starving hound, which I am, but that's OK because he's my dad.
Anyway, one of the first things I do when checking in at any hotel, and El Hotel Suzanne is no exception, is to verify the comfy factor of the humans' bed.
As you can see, the bed was to my satisfaction. This establishment receives 5 Noses in the comfy bed category. In future posts, I will have ratings on the meals, entertainment, and other amenities provided.
Hello, humans. It is I, Raja. The dog. Your friend. I am nine years old now. This is me. As you can see, I am resting quite comfortably on the comfy bed, minding my own business. That was BEFORE. You may have heard that I got an owie on my paw when I was nine because I was bitten by a rattlesnake. Much has been said already by my hoominz about how one day, when I was at an open playgroup, I was minding my own business and I got bitten by a rattlesnake, on my paw, when I was nine. And how I had to go to the vet place for three whole days, and how I had needles stuck in me and I wouldn't eat anything until the very last day and everyone thought I was probably going to not come back from the pet hospital, but then I pulled through and everyone was happy, mostly my hoominz, who spent a lot of time feeding me chicken and rice and some pills that made the swelling go down in my paw and some other pills that made me really tired. This was when I was nine.
As you can see, my paw was all swollen still and I was very tired and I didn't want to play at all. And everyone thought that this was an accident that happened but it wasn't, only I couldn't say anything at the time because I was taking pills that made me sleepy because I was bitten by a rattlesnake when I was minding my own business when I was nine. But I am not taking the pills any more, and my paw is much better, so I can now tell you what really happened when I was bitten by a rattlesnake when I was minding my own business when I was nine.
You see, everyone thinks that it was just an ordinary rattlesnake, like this one. It looks kind of cute and harmless. Just a little rattlesnake, out minding its own snakey business. But it was not. TRUST ME.
It was, in fact, a Mutant Rattlesnake of Death. It had three heads and red eyes and was not smiling. This is the snake that bit me on the paw when I was nine.
Except that it had three heads and red eyes and was not smiling and the eyes shot death ray laser beams. This is the snake that bit me on the paw when I was nine. Except it had three heads and red eyes and was not smiling and the eyes shot death ray laser beams and it also had armor plating. Like a dragon. Only better.
This is really the snake that bit me on the paw when I was nine. Except that this was a Giant Mutant Commander Rattlesnake of Death that was leading an armyof three-headed snakes with death ray laser beam eyes and armor plating, and he was just as scary as all the rest except that he was two hundred feet tall. This is really the snake that bit me on the paw when I was nine.
But because I had stepped on him he slithered away in fear so fast that he dropped his armor and the laser beams stopped shooting and so did all the other rattlesnakes with three heads and death ray laser beam eyes and armor plating, because they saw that I was a GOOD DOG and did not take any nonsense from those evil mutant rattlesnakes.
And that is the real true story of how I got an owie on my paw when I was nine. May I have a cookie now, on account of how I was so very brave?
OK, grammatically-incorrect, but I can't resist the occasional (frequent) bad pun. Anyway, so it turns out that Raja is not quite the hurdling champion that he thought he was after he took out that log at warp factor nine yesterday. He seemed fine after the doggie playdate until yesterday evening, when he limped to his food dish and was not remotely interested in a walk. So, it was time to go see the vet again.
After the usual listening and probing and examining (plus much nuzzling of the vet tech--lucky dog--and the veterinarian), he's OK, nothing broken, but it's sprained, so the USS Raja is currently in dry-dock for the next week or so until his left-front nacelle comes back online. Plus he gets mild pain-killers to help with the discomfort.
Hold on a sec. Raj is saying something about all the pink rabbits in the living room ...
OK, we're back.
And by the way, the last Star Trek movie? AUGH! We had the Particle of the Week (PoTW, in the Trek Parlance), Kirk+Orion female pr0n (of a sort), Spock+Uhuru pr0n (of a sort), the Complete Misrepresentation of Astrophyics (one does not emerge intact from the "other side" of a black hole), and the science fiction alternative to "it was all just a dream" cliche: the Parallel Universe. And a death ray. And a sub-orbital drop onto a moving platform on said death ray.
Awful. Just awful. Please please please let that be the last one. Just my two cents.
My friend Suzanne is a talented photographer and has a knack for catching greyhounds at just the right moment. Like this. And this.
By the way, I've met Breeze in person, so to speak. At first she wanted nothing to do with me or with any hoomin males, but over the past few months she's really overcome her shyness and now has no problem bounding up to me looking for treats and various rubs.
So go visit Suzanne's sites, here and here. Buy stuff. NOW! .
Raja and I go for walks. A lot. And as anyone knows, when you walk a greyhound, it's not just a matter of a leash and good shoes. There's all sorts of accessories, and by accessories, I mean stuff you don't want to be bothered with but are going to be mad as hell that you don't have two-thirds of a mile down the road. For example:
An extra roll of poop baggies (VERY ESSENTIAL). You don't know the meaning of the word awkward until His Royal Majesty (or Her Highness) takes a squat in the MIDDLE OF SOMEONE'S DRIVEWAY just as said someone is stepping out of his house to empty the garbage or go to the store, and said someone happens to be about the same size and dimension and temperament as Darth Vader. Yeah, you want those extra baggies.
Minibottles of hand sanitizer. See point 1, above.
Squeaker. In the event your beloved pooch espies a rabbit and decides it's time to engage at Warp Factor Eleventy Billion just at the moment you've bent over to tie your shoe, it's helpful to have a high-pitched squeaky toy as you run frantically after what is now a tiny dot of dust on the horizon. It's not so much to call the dog back as it is to let the search and rescue teams know where you've fallen from exhaustion, pleading with whatever deities to just grant you a merciful death.
Cookies. It's not that I actually feed him anything. But it's a great trick to keep him paying attention to my pocket instead of the garbage can, the car hubcap, the tree over there, or that bush over there, or hey maybe that dead bird in the wash ...
Ipod. For one, it's useful for keeping tempo and a brisk walking pace, but more importantly, it gives you a certain amount of plausible deniability when you keep walking past the moron who insists on asking you any or all of the following:
Do you still race him? No, I adopted him so he wouldn't HAVE to race. People like that need to see the photos of the dogs that DIDN'T do well at the track before they ask stupid-ass questions like that. Dog racing = cruel. Not all breeders are heartless and uncaring, but a lot of them are, and the industry is, well, an industry.
How many fights has he won? If you can't tell the difference between a greyhound and a pitbull, you probably should be slathered in porkchops and set loose at the nearest racetrack. You'll understand the difference in the two or three seconds left of your incredibly insipid life after the gates go up.
Have you ever heard of the Dog Whisperer? Facepalm. Gosh, no. I mean, the pet stores aren't packed to the ceiling with Dog Whisperer books, Dog Whisperer treats, Dog Whisperer videos, Dog Whisperer aquariums ... (actually, he's a good trainer for dogs and his show is pretty cool, but the question is just one big sticky ball of DUH).
Cost of an Ipod? $200-$300, give or take. Not having to give snappy answers to stupid questions and then running like hell to avoid getting the living crap pounded out of you by the local Neanderthal? Priceless.
Now, picture trying to store all this stuff in the tiny wedge of space afforded to you by most blue jeans. Yeah. You're liable to end up with hand sanitizer cookie crumbs all over your iPod, which will then short-circuit and catch fire, melting the squeaker which will happen to be strategically positioned over one's "special area" ...
You get the idea.
So, if you're going to adopt a greyhound, the first thing you need to invest in are several sets of the best invention ever.
CARGO PANTS. Four deep pockets plus two in the back. All with velcro for easy access. Durable fabric, easy to wash, and best of all, available in that beige color that looks just like dirt, which you will acquire by the ton as His Majesty decides to paw at some random patch of dry, dusty riverbed, sending clouds of dust (and spores from some prehistoric and doubtlessly fatal fungus) into the air just to let everyone know that he was RIGHT HERE and there's NOTHING anyone can do about.
Cargo Pants. Can't say enough about 'em. Probably explains why I've had the following song bastardization running through my head the past few days. Sung to the chorus of Elton John's "Saturday Night's Alright":
Don't give me none of those fanny packs
And regular 501s just won't do
I need those deep deep pockets
And some velcro fasteners too ...
Cargo pants, cargo pants, cargo pants
Cargo pants, cargo pants, cargo pants
Cargo pants, cargo pants, cargo pants
Cargo pants hold all my stuff ...
No, I couldn't think of anything that rhymed with pants, either. That's probably why Elton John's rich and I'm, well, not. So here's the real deal for you.
As you can see, the bed was to my satisfaction. This establishment receives 5 Noses in the comfy bed category. In future posts, I will have ratings on the meals, entertainment, and other amenities provided. 
