Make Mine Mike

Damn, I didn't get to blog yesterday, blowing my streak already. I was stuck at work 'til really late, and then got up at 6 this morning to finish writing another script. Meanwhile, apparently Bernie was busy with paperwork of his own.

"'Caught in the act'?! No way, dude. It was like this when I got here."

If blogging is dead, then consider me the Jason Voorhees or Mike Myers of the cyberworld. I may lay dormant for a while, but I'll come back with a vengeance to slash the internet with further variations on old themes. Or just call me the html herpes.

Writing mindless TV all day has kept me from doing the same here. But I'm gonna try to finish up August with a post every day. Now, what to write about? You don't wanna hear about work, so why not talk about my other rewarding time-waster -- our puppy Bernie.

Now that he's had his shots he can go to the dog park and work off all his animal aggression on the other dogs. We take him every day, and I'm finding it to be a fascinating sociological study. There's a lot I can say on the subject, but I'll sum it up with three possible comparisons:

1. High school. There are cliques that form among the pooches -- the German Shepherds form their own schweinhunt circle, the lapdogs have their snobbish exclusive group, and the retrievers are too busy playing fetch to interact, kinda like the hackie-sack hippie kids. Then there's Bernie. The new kid in town. Way too eager to fit in. "Hi, wanna play? No? Okay, that's cool. I'll be over here if you need me. Hey guys, how 'bout that chasing your tail? Great way to get dizzy, huh? Oh, I see you're busy. Maybe later... Yo, dude, lemme sniff your butt, whattaya say...?"

2. Prison yard. Bernie's the fresh meat, but my little scrapper refuses to let anyone make him their bitch. No matter what the dog's size, he'll bite, scratch and wrestle like a pooch who just wants to get shanked. Last weekend I saw him come over to a giant Siberian Husky and bat his paws upward -- "put up yer dukes! I'll moiderize ya!" One swipe of the husky's leg -- whunk! -- and Bernie was down for the count. Then I put him in solitary for a while.

3. College orientation. That's more for me. Remember how you had to answer the same questions that first week? Where are you from? What dorm are you in? Do you know what your major will be? What prep school did you go to? (For me, none, but there was a surprising number of pretentious preppies attending East Coast private universities.) Wanna get wasted? Same deal, different set of inquiries. I wish I had a name tag or business card just to save me from repeating myself: His name's Bernie. He's now 4 1/2 months old. Terrier mix. Maybe labrador retriever in there. Don't know -- his mom is a black and scruffy looking. His dad was some male-whore. Well, he'll probably grow to a hundred pounds. But only if he gets better at hunting for his meals. Bernie, enough grappling with that Collie! Stop playing with your food!

Only in LA.

A casting agent approached us about our dog. Yeah, my puppy could have representation.

Why not? He's cute yet becoming distinguished with age, and probably quite talented... kinda like the Leonardo diCaprio of canines. Probably he could do a few commercials, make a few guest appearances on today's equivalent of "Growing Pains" (what would that be? "2 & 1/2 Men"? I've never seen it. Ditto "Tyler Perry's House of Pain".), and then boom! Titanic money, baby. Let the little mutt earn his keep around here.

But then, reality sinks in. We were at a dog fair. There were booths selling all-natural treats, designer collars and biodegradable poop bags.

I know, whatta way to spend an afternoon. I went because we were told that the woman who owns two of Bernie's siblings was gonna be there, so it'd be a mini-mongrel family revolution. But, bad timing, we never saw her.

Anyway, the point is, this was a gathering of pet owners. People with disposable income to blow on their pooches. Why not bilk 'em for more, with Hollywood caviar dreams about owning the next Marley & Me star? And, by the way, this casting company supposedly worked on that film, as well as Hotel for Dogs. I'm sure that's what all the animal casting agents say. Nobody wants to take credit for Zoltan, Hound of Dracula.

I think it was a scam to get Bernie into some very expensive training classes that he'd need, while dangling the milkbone of Benji-type superstardom in front of his snout. Pardon my cynicism. But I'm probably better off not pimping out my pooch. That's all I need -- to let him become more of a doggie diva than he already is.