Doggy idiosyncrasies. I've lovingly accepted them for so long, I've grown immune to how truly funny they are... those bizarre behaviors that gives everyone's animal a wickedly unique personality.
They so define our pets that we should name our pets later. Just call them all Lord Voldemort until they're 4.
If my canine redheaded-stepchildren didn't have a hard enough time with their real names, I'd give them new ones to match their idiosyncrasies... though they've more tics than Sheldon Cooper, so which do I pick?
Each is a smelly, redheaded, ovary-challenged lady. The shepherd/boxer mix more closely resembles a cross between a 4-legged kangaroo and a satellite dish. I'd probably call her Radar to acknowledge the DirecTV dishes atop her noggin -- or maybe Sonar -- but she is so fertile with neurosis, tics, and twitches that I must do better.
The barrel-chested boxer/lab mutt oscillates between a cuddle-happy lick-machine and a PMS-ing alpha male who sometimes raises her leg to pee. I can't decide if she's judging us from atop the lick-stained couch... or just too lazy to care.
While I reserve the right to change their monikers at any time... whether to better describe them, to confound my readers, or to send secret messages about the end of the world to my 501(c)(3) cult... let's call them:
Cranky and Crackaroo.
Give me time... volumes shall be written. History is made every single day in my house.
Shut up and get to the point! What is Shaken Doggy Syndrome?
Oh, right. The title. Tangents aren't just for math-class anymore.
So... I have a theory. And an ancillary purpose for writing this blog...
I strive to raise awareness for a malady affecting millions of dogs.
In fact, all dogs, everywhere.
Or at least all dogs that live under my roof.
And maybe a couple other roofs I know of.
A malady which turns those doggy idiosyncrasies into full blown doggy psychopathy.
A malady I call Shaken Doggy Syndrome.
Some cases are mild, and some are debilitating. But similar to what happens from drinking Master Blasters, shaking babies, or the mass migration of a man's blood from his brain to his penis, tail wagging kills brain cells. Or at least reduces brain activity to 6-degrees Kelvin.
Think about it.
Canines are built to survive wild environments, scarce food supplies, and harsh weather. They build complex social structures and coordinate their efforts to hunt larger and faster prey. But when a dog gets excited...
And she sees her owner...
And her tail starts wagging...
And all brain activity short-circuits like a toaster in the bathtub...
Feces becomes food.
Furniture becomes bowling alley lane bumpers.
The gap beneath chain-link fences becomes the Grand Canyon, further causing intact ears to become irrelevant.
The seventh step from the bottom of a staircase becomes a lauchpad.
Plate-glass windows become a stiff breeze.
And I'm here to prove it.
(also visit my photography blog at http://www.everydayaphoto.com
or my business Gigabark at http://www.gigabark.com )
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