Ask Roswell
Ask Roswell
I am not sure if this is a good idea, but I have gotten a lot of emails lately asking questions about my dogs. I have also gotten a few emails addressed to my dogs.
So today, to answer some canine emails, I have turned the column over to our resident interwebs expert, Roswell.
Enjoy
Michael
Dear Story:
My hooman will not give me a treat every time I go outside, is he defective?
Hungry in Tulsa
Dear Hungry:
Have you tried going outside and coming back in?
Roswell
Dear Story:
I beg and beg, yet my hooman will not share their noms with me. They insist on feeding me only dog food.
Desperate in Seattle
Dear Desperate:
Beg. Do not be ashamed to whine or even bark. Eventually, they will give in. Also, are you using the sad puppy dog eyes?
Roswell
Dear Story:
My owner insists on making me wear hooman clothes. Is it okay to chew on them?
Ridiculous in Richmond
Dear Ridiculous:
I researched and I found that hooman clothes on dogs violate the Geneva convention. Not only is it permissible, you are also expected to chew on their shoes.
Many hoomans have forgotten the reason behind dressing dogs in clothes. It all dates back to the punishments handed down after the unsuccessful Poodle Revolt of Paris in 1799.
That is why poodles are shaved to look like cotton balls to this day.
Roswell.
Dear Story:
My people are always asking me who’s a good boy. How do I find out?
Worried in West Virginia
Dear Worried
Do not look for who is a good boy! Repeat do not look! The Illuminati have conditioned humans to ask for who is a good boy. They are not asking you if you are a good boy, unlike we are led to believe.
From my research, there is a secret dog resistance run by an operative who goes by the Codename of “Good Boy.” They are asking you for information on the leader of the movement.
Roswell
Dear Story:
My hoomans expect me to shake, but will not learn to sniff my butt like dogs. Why?
Confused in California
Dear Confused
During the unsuccessful Poodle Revolt, Dogs tried to keep hoomans in the dark by requiring a special butt sniff much like the hooman secret handshake. After the revolt was put down, we were forbidden to sniff them to allow them to infiltrate our organizations.
This prevents future uprisings.
Roswell
Dear Story:
My hooman insists on hiding their valuable socks in something called a drawer. I am not even allowed to have one, let alone chew on it! Why? They have so many, why can’t they share one or two?!
Sad Sockless
Dear Sad
I Know!
My Hoomans not only hide their socks, they hide their shoes as well. There is no reason I can think of for such greed. Do we not protect their houses from invasions by leaves and the guy stealing paper from the mailbox?
Roswell
Well, folks, I would take more of your emails, but my hooman says it is time for me to go for a walk. So keep those emails coming and I will answer more in the future.
Keep those tails wagging and may you find the tasty garbage!
Roswell. [/et_pb_text][/et_pb_column][/et_pb_row][/et_pb_section]
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This became a holiday tradition a number of years ago. I have moved to a different platform, but want to keep this tradition alive.
Since I first wrote this, we have lost first Bernie, and this past summer, Jada. This is a way I keep their memories.
Happy Christmas to all!
My human, Michael is off this weekend, so it is up to me, Bill, to write his column.
Since this is the weekend before Christmas, I have decided that my two brothers will help me in reciting the Night Before Christmas.
So, sit back as me, Bernie and Roswell entertain as only we can.
Bill
Bill, Bernie, and Roswell had the living room to themselves. They watched as the coloured Christmas lights blinked on and off. Bill yawned and looked at his two brothers who were occupying the chairs on the other side of the room.
“My human,” he always referred to Michael that way, after all, to Bill, Michael was his. He only shared him with his brothers, his mother, Jada, and Franchesca.
My human has asked me to read you the Christmas bedtime story of, “The Night Before Christmas. It is about Santa Claus”
Roswell’s and Bernies’s ears perked up and they looked at their brother. It sounded like fun, after all, they knew that every year they got special tasty treats from Santa, so they waited for him to begin.
Bill dragged an older-looking book from under the couch, where he had stashed it next to his growing collection of silverware and other odds and ends he thought were shiny.
Using his snout to push open the book, he cleared his throat to begin.
‘Twas the night before Christmas,
Bernie looked confused, he asked, “What’re a twas?”
Bill shrugged, “I think it is a fancy was, anyway:
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house…Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
Bernie stared carefully at the walls, trying to hear the scurring of little feet. He asked, “We have mice?”
Bill sighed, “No, in the story:
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
Bernie squinted his eyes, “Who is Saint Nicholas? You said this was about Santa Claus!”
Roswell looked up, “Oh, Saint Nicholas is Santa’s street name. That’s what Google told me. So he can avoid being tracked by the illuminatti.”
Bill or Bernie wasn’t sure if that was the right answer, but he did say it was on the interwebs so it must be true.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap,
Bernie looked perplexed. He would admit that since mealtime and running defending the house against terrorist invaders was his favourite thing, he was not aware of too many other things. However, this had him confused.
“We sleep in comfy chairs, not beds. What is a ‘sugar plum? You don’t have a cap.”
Roswell looked nervous, “Be afraid, sugar plums in your dreams are signs the NSA is watching.”
Bill wasn’t sure if that was right, but he had to go on.
“In the story,” he stated.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
Bernie bounded from his recliner barking wildly as he headed for the window,
“INTRUDER ALERT! EVERYONE BE CALM!!!”
Bill tried desperately to read on over the sound of his brother barking loudly.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
Bernie was confused again. Bill had said a sleigh with reindeer had invaded. Yet he saw nothing. Then again, he also had only seen snow once and thought it was tasty.
He walked back to his recliner and with a thud, jumped into it and curled up. He was not liking this story. It was not good for his nerves.
Bill cleared his throat and tried to continue,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name; “Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
Roswell snorted, “That’s the names given we are told they have. Have we ever seen a reindeer? Do you think that they would have code name style names? It is a military-style cover name. Those are handles.”
Bill looked, “What are you talking about?”
But Bill did not give Roswell a chance to answer, he knew that it would take far more than the rest of the evening. So he read quickly.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
Bill stopped reading, he was missing a page from the story. He knew it was there when he found the book and yanked it off the shelf. Then he remembered that he had gotten hungry and ate it. He hoped his humans wouldn’t notice.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
Bernie and Roswell leapt off their chairs and ran to their stockings that were tacked on the wall. Even Roswell jumping up and trying to grab the bottom of his stocking did not allow him to pull it down to investigate. He looked angry, muttered something about conspiracies, and sauntered back to his chair.
Bill cocked his head in confusion and decided to finish his narrative.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”
This past year has been a wonderful year of writing articles to entertain and inform. To all my readers, I wish you a joyous holiday and prosperous New Year.[/et_pb_text][/et_pb_column][/et_pb_row][/et_pb_section]
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This being the week of Thanksgiving, I figured that I would let Roswell tell the readers at home his story of the first Nomsgiving.
A little background, we at my house jokingly refer to it as Nomsgiving because we take portions of our Thanksgiving Dinner which are safe for dogs, and spruce up their dinner.
It is weird, but you can almost swear they know it is Nomsgiving as they are overly excited all day.
And without further ado, dog historian Roswell Cosmos Cole.
Roswell here, I want to tell you the story of the first Nomsgiving.
It dates back to the first unsuccessful English Bulldog Revolt of 1617. Not to confuse it with the Poodle Revolt of 1789 which was horrific as ever since, poodles have been forced to suffer their humiliating haircuts as a sign of punishment.
A sect of the brave doggies who had fought for more treats and an end to sleeping on the floor (after all, why do only hoomans get to sleep on comfy beds?), had heard of these people called Pilgrims who were on their way to the “New World.”
Perhaps, they mused, this could be the beginnings of a new life. Their leader, a handsome Bulldog by the name of Miles Buttons, was able to secure passage on the ship called the Mayflower.”
Miles Buttons and party departing for the New World
So the brave pack of doggies set forth to cross the big blue wet thing in search for a new life.
For a month or more they suffered on the boat. Dog treats ran out. Doggies were in danger of falling overboard when using the bathroom. This after they were banned from going on the big tree with the big white leaves that billowed in the wind.
Finally they reached their destination. A cloudy land with rocks and trees.
Trees? The doggies were about to realize a dream of years. A tree for every dog.
Was this the land they had been told about in the book of Dogs-Mosses? Where treat-os grow on trees and there is a hooman to rub every belly?
They were excited. But a harsh year was ahead of them.
They had met some doggies who called themselves wolves who took them kindly under their wings and showed them how to chase the demons called squirrels and how to dig for the tasty roots and grass. Even better, they were taught by the wolves how to properly beg at the table to get tasty hooman noms.
It was a glorious time.
And the next winter, as their hoomans invited the First Nations people in a celebration and “thanksgiving”, the doggies invited their wolf friends and together they begged for scraps from the table.
Since there was plenty they were granted tasty noms and belly rubs.
And we doggies celebrate it every year.
So if your doogie is begging for noms, then give it to them, they are merely keeping the Nomsgiving Tradition alive.[/et_pb_text][/et_pb_column][/et_pb_row][/et_pb_section]
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My dog Roswell has obsessions.
For instance, if you move furniture, he will attack it. If you sweep, mop, or vacuum you can be sure he will go after the handle.
When my wife brings in anything from her shopping adventures, he has to sit at the entrance of the kitchen and watch her unpack everything.
Those are just the inside obsessions.
However, of late he has found a new one: the mail.
It started off with him jumping to look out the window when the mail carrier stopped in front of our house. As she left packages at the front door, he was hooked.
He would sniff at the door as if somehow he could breathe in hard enough and the package would be sucked under the door so he could investigate.
And once the package was brought in, he had to see what it was, or no one got peace from his whining.
This eventually escalated to the mail in general. He has to sniff the mail or he is upset.
Now, Roswell is not an overly destructive dog. His problem is his insatiable curiosity. It has gotten him into trouble on numerous occasions.
He tried once to unplug the Christmas tree from the wall after seeing us do it. Nearly got electrocuted.
Roswell wanted to see what my Mother-in-Law was cooking on the stovetop once and almost set himself and the house on fire.
Did I mention he was overly curious?
We know it’s crawfish time because he will start digging up the backyard to get to them.
But, back to the mail.
I decided to have a little fun. I would give him the junk mail we received. I didn’t want another offer of a free car or something meant for “current resident,” so I gave it to him.
He would run around with it and then shred it.
This week I decided to try something new. I found an unmailed Christmas card and mailed it to my house addressed to Roswell. Figured maybe he just was as annoyed with junk mail as I was.
Today the mail arrived and in it was the card for Roswell.
I showed the unopened envelope to him and said he had mail.
He stared at it. Sniffed it. He got the grin he usually gets when he thinks he is going to have fun.
Roswell grabbed the card and ran off. I expected he would go in the corner and shred it.
Instead, everywhere he has gone, he has taken it with him. Just looked at it, there are some chew marks on it from where he clamped down on it.
But for the most part, all he has done is carried it around and stayed next to it.
I guess all Roswell ever wanted was someone to mail him a letter.
He is a good boy and is now barking because he feels I need to pay attention to him and his letter.
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