The Chapster Chronicles (2): Walks on the (Political) Wild Side

Travel is broadening, or so the adage goes. So, I've discovered, is walking the dog.

True, our usual neighborhood routes boast none of Europe's splendid restaurants or spectacular cathedrals, or even stunning scenery like, say, New Zealand. But wonders do exist for the curious--or for beagle owners forced, as I am, to poke along, waiting for the darned hound to read his "pee mail" or snuff around trying to locate that tantalizing morsel of discarded drumstick or, better yet, a dead rat, human excrement, or other yummy treat.

Earlier this month, for instance, a welcome rainy spell brought forth a prodigious variety of very cool mushrooms. Giant white toadstools (probably Parasol Mushrooms or some other form of agaricus) sprang up under apartment complex hedges. Huge fairy rings sprouted on lawns. Then there were these vivid red, horn-like fungi topped with brown slime that appeared in the community garden, looking for all the world like Ork dicks. (Apologies to Lord of the Rings fans!)

This past week, the Chapster and I discovered another wonder had popped up around the neighborhood: political bumper stickers.

In the old days, cars proclaimed their owners politics all the time. There were the flower-power decals of Eugene McCarthy supporters (often affixed to the sides of VW bugs). There were Nixon is the One conservatives, and Don't Blame Me, I'm From Massachusetts liberals from the only state that threw it's electoral votes to Tricky Dicky's opponent.

Lately, the war in Iraq clearly has ignited creative slogan-writing along with the public's passions. Forget those worn out W04 vs. John Kerry supporters. These days, our neighborhood is awash with what broadcaster Paul Harvey used to call "bumper snickers."

Among my favorites:
The Asses of Evil (with photos of Bush, Cheney and Rumsfeld)
No One Died Because Clinton Lied
Would someone please give Bush a (b.j) so we can impeach him.

On the right, but out in the soccer-mom suburbs far from my urban aerie, comes these two on an SUV with Virginia plates RTWING:
Get U.S. out of the U.N.
and (paraphrasing after a month's lapse)
If you can't trust me to carry a gun, how can I trust you to make a "choice?"

Dog walkers, feel free to post your own politically edifying moments with Fido. My grandfather used to say the world was going to the dogs--how right he was!

The Chapster Chronicles


When you own a beagle, particularly a grizzled chow hound like ours, every week brings some entertaining misadventure -- or disaster. So I thought I'd share them.

Take the World Cup soccer finals. While we spent the afternoon next door watching Italy battle France for the championship, the Chapster decided his owners had abandoned him forever and raided the pantry. He managed to drag a 20-pound bag of rice into the room, gnaw open a corner, and consume as much as he could hoover up. We arrived home to find a rice-strewn kitchen and a sleeping dog so thick around the middle his legs didn't touch the floor.

We spent the next five days cleaning up after "Rice Boy," as he became known around the neighborhood.

No sooner had that hound recovered than he went after a box full of freshly baked brownies and cookies that a friend had brought over -- no mean feat, given that the goodies were high on the kitchen counter, and the Chapster is too fat to leap much higher than a hair. He must have pulled some newspapers and brought the cookies along with them. Or maybe he got a purchase on a drawer handle. Who knows? All I can say is that chocolate is not as toxic to dogs as conventional wisdom has it, but our rugs will never recover!

Beagles should have their own show on the Food Network, they are so into eating. Raw rice, gourmet brownies--it's all grub to them.

This week's adventure in fine dining involved doughnuts: a dozen fresh Krispy Kremes, to be exact, that my kid had purchased from her meager earnings to bring to math class the next morning. While she was beavering away on her homework, that crafty hound calculated how he could maneuver the box off the kitchen table without alerting anyone. An hour later, all that remained were a few telltale crumbs and an empty box on the floor.

Who needs enemies with a man's best friend like ours?

To be continued......