As I cast about for better ways to earn the dollars necessary to participate in this great sociologial experiment called "How the Undeserving Are Always Rewarded" (some of you playing at home might have another version of the game called "Human Beings Just Aren't Smart Enough To Create A Society That Doesn't Degenerate Into A Battle for Power and Riches", but really, different version, same game) I was inspired by my two dogs.

Yes, those little lovemuffins who have mastered the art of the full butt wiggle of happiness may bring more than a smile to my lips. They might actually bring in cold hard cash.

Here's the plan: Dogs Gone Wild, the movie. Kind of like The Blair Witch Project, but faster paced and with less dialogue.

Allow me to backtrack. As I have mentioned in previous posts, on more more than one occasion our dogs (though normally most unremarkable) have exhibited outrageous behavior. The kind of behavior that makes T and me look like reprehensible animal owners. (I would venture to say our behavior is, in fact, reprehensible . . but whatever. ) The kind of behavior that has our home phone number posted at the police dispatch in three towns. The kind of behavior I'm almost afraid to share with you because I know you will either flay me alive with your fury and outrage or you will leave this blog never to return again to my evil, evil haunt.

But, in view of yesterday's NYT article*, I would like to say mommy blogs don't have the corner on self-absorption. Hell no. Child-free blogs have even MORE room for self-absorption (I kind of even feel like a paper towel) seeing as there are no kids in the picture to suck away content. Thus, whether you stay or go, I shall continue on chronicling my travesty of animal parenthood because we of the self-absorbed blog world are nothing like self-absorbed journalists who need an audience.

So, back to the moment of my great cinematic vision.

Saturday afternoon T is working up at Soliden. He calls to check in at 3 pm and mentions, the dogs have run off. Grrrrr. Deer-chasers. The brats.

Why are they not caged?

Why are they not on a leash?

How could this happen, AGAIN?

Yes. Yes. I hear you---- they are not caged because we want them to enjoy running through the fields. They are not on a leash because T is working. They do take flight which is of great concern and demonstrates our failed training. YES, I HEAR YOU. It's the equivalent of leaving a 2 year-old to roam the mall while we take in a movie.

T comes home at dark. No sign of the dogs even though, at my suggestion, he grilled a hamburger to try and entice them back.

I go up at 8 pm. Alone. Have I ever described how remote the property is where we propose to live? Let me just say, I got out of my car (leaving it running and the headlights on) and kept jumping in terror AT MY OWN SHADOW. The only source of light for miles and miles, besides the moon and the stars, were my two headlights. I call. I wait. I whistle. I check the shed that has a little dog door. But no dogs. There is nothing to be done. Our property backs into the White Mountains. Thousands of miles of wilderness. I get back into my car and drive home.

As I drive, I think about the coyotes that roam this area. I have horrific visions of Ollie and Henry being surrounded by a pack of hungry coyotes (much like the scene in Disney's Beauty and the Beast with no Beast to save them) and my stomach flips up into my mouth and I don't think I am going to be able to breathe. I am mad at us. I am mad at them. I am agitated beyond measure.

We go to bed that night. Me, thinking I am never going to see my dogs again. T, certain they will come back when they feel like it and crawl into their cozy shed scene and sleep it off like two young men after a big night on the town.

6:30 am. Neither of us slept well. T heads straight up to Soliden and calls to say, "they're here." When I finally put my hands on their golden heads and stare deep into their dark brown eyes--- I see secrets. They have had the time of their life. They have seen things and done things that other dogs only dream about. And that's when it hits me.

I'll strap two mini cameras to their heads. Cameras that will automatically click on night vision lights when necessary to document their crazy-assed wild times.

It's gonna be big. But it won't be happening anytime soon. Cause the dogs? They are SO grounded. No TV, no PlayStation, no hanging out at the mall and NO telephone calls from friends.

*NOTE: for anyone reading this who doesn't know me I feel obliged to footnote that the NYT article was utter horseshit. My guess as to why such contempt would be oozing out from between each sentence is that the author fears strong, powerful, funny writing that puts his output to shame. But that's just me guessing. Maybe his penis is smaller than a roll of lipbalm and he writes to distract himself from his sense of inadequacy. Again, just guessing here.

Soliden Update below:

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