William Thomas - Dog Rules

PENGUIN CANADA

THE DOG RULES

WILLIAM J. THOMAS is a nationally syndicated humour columnist, the author of several books and a twice-nominated Gemini Award writer of television films. He lives on Sunset Bay in Wainfleet, Ontario.

Visit his website at www.williamthomas.ca

The Cat Rules (Everything Including the Dog!)

Never Hitchhike on the Road Less Travelled

Margaret and Me

Malcolm and Me

GuysNot Real Bright and Damn Proud of It

Hey! Is That Guy Dead or Is He the Skip?

The Tabloid Zone: Dancing with the Four-Armed Man

(Damn Near Everything!)

William J. Thomas

PENGUIN CANADA

Published by the Penguin Group

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First published in Canada by Key Porter Books Limited, 2000

Published in this edition, 2008

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 (WEB)

Copyright William J. Thomas, 2000

What A Wonderful World: Composed by Robert Thiele/George David Weiss used with the permission of Range Road Music, Inc.

What A Wonderful World: Words and Music by George David Weiss and Bob Thiele. Copyright 1967 by Range Road Music Inc., Quartet Music and Abilene Music, Inc. Copyright Renewed. International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.

What A Wonderful World: Words and Music by George David Weiss and Bob Thiele. 1967 Range Road Music Inc. and Quartet Music Inc. Renewed 1995 by George David Weiss and Bob Thiele. Rights for George David Weiss Assigned to Abilene Music, Inc. and Administered by THE SONGWRITERS GUILD OF AMERICA. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission of ALFRED PUBLISHING CO., INC.

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Manufactured in Canada.

LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

Thomas, William J., 1946

The dog rules (damn near everything!) / William J. Thomas.

ISBN 978-0-14-316816-4

1. DogsCanadaHumor. 2. Jake (Dog). 3. Thomas, William J., 1946. I. Title.

PS8589.H471Z53 2008a C818.5402 C2007-906124-9

ISBN-13: 978-0-14-316816-4

ISBN-10: 0-14-316816-9

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For Whitney and David, Harry and Tulsa

From Cat Lover

I have, for half my life, loved cats.

I never much cared for or paid attention to them until I got married and my wife and I needed pets to protect us from the thought of having kids.

As a boy growing up with two dogs and the next-door neighbors gorgeous blond collie, I naturally wanted a canine, specifically a boxer.

My wifes family had always kept cats. Lots of them. Of course, she wanted a cat.

So we struck one of those marital compromises, a necessary accommodation of wills that keep a marriage running smoothly. We got two cats and then in no time at all, two more.

Dogless, and living in what was once the servants residence of a gated mansion in Fonthill, Ontario, I wearily began to watch these little buggers, these arrogant tiny people with four legs and fur.

And gradually, reluctantly, I learned to love cats. I could get down on all fours and outstare them, but I, of course, could never outsmart them. I studied the habits of each of them and figured out ways to mess them up. I never stopped marveling at their ability to relax, to stretch, to nap for days at a time, and turn an open drawer into a pullout couch.

I found joy in their excitement, laughter in their playfulness, and alarm in their anger that would see tails stop wagging and begin snapping back and forthThump! Thump! Thump! the final warning that teeth and claws would be deployed if teasing were to continue. I was always amazed that on those occasional special Friday nights when we smoked up, the cats got stoned sooner and seemed to enjoy the Beatles even more than our guests.

When the marriage ended, she got three cats and a dark green Cutlass convertible with a khaki canvas top. I moved to my cottage on Sunset Bay with Malcolm, a buck-toothed, short-hair gray and gangly bundle of love that the other three cats hated. It was a food thing. With the grin of a Cheshire and the swagger of John Wayne, he was the wonderful waif I had for eighteen enchanting yearsa tale I recounted in a book entitled Malcolm and Me: Life in the Litterbox.

The moment I got Malcolms ashes from the crematorium, I placed them with great reverence in a highly polished mahogany urn on the mantel of my fireplace. Then I dutifully repeated the solemn oath of all good pet owners: Never again. No more cats. No more pets, period.

And I said so in my weekly syndicated newspaper column, lest some well-intended reader drop a kitten on my doorstep.

The five-page letter from Carole Hallpike who lived on a farm near Caledonia, Ontario, was a most shameless and pathetic attempt to foist an unwanted pet onto a vulnerable and grieving man. There was the physical description of this magnificent, young, haughty malethe white bow-tie front, the white bobby-socks legs that set off a shimmering coat of many colorsgray, brown, beige and rust.

She must have used a clich dictionary for the last two pages: Clever as a fox, cute as a button, smart as a whip, as lovable and handsome as her husband when theyd first married, of course.

It was such a sorrowful letter Im sure the stamps had been wetted with her very own tears. And I told her as much when I showed up at the farm the day after I got the letter, carrying an empty cardboard box to bring this little orphan home.

After he wedged himself into several tight spots behind rads and between closet doors, I realized Id been oversold on that smart as a whip feature.