I know you're asking yourself, "what does today's title mean?" Is it a disease out of the murky depths of the Congo? Is it the a design company that launched last week at Bryant Park? Is it the result of Chelsea being awake too early, and passing out on her keyboard?
No, my friends, it is none of those things.
It is rather the name of the Komondor "Best in Breed" winner at the 2008 Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. In case you're wondering what the hell a Komondor breed dog look like, I've provided you with a picture of ol' Slew 'Em himself:
No, my friends, it is none of those things.
It is rather the name of the Komondor "Best in Breed" winner at the 2008 Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. In case you're wondering what the hell a Komondor breed dog look like, I've provided you with a picture of ol' Slew 'Em himself:
Slew 'Em comes from a very impressive lineage, including a father who won several awards as a pure bred Komondor show dog, and a mother who was a kitchen mop at Applebee's.Unless you've been living under a rock whose landlord doesn't allow pets, you know that the Westminster is the Super Bowl, Olympics, and Ken Paves Salon of the canine world. It is the creme de la creme of competitive dog shows, showcasing only the best in their breeds. For me, it's like crack is flowing out of the tv and directly into my blood stream.
I get to watch dogs on parade for hours and hours, and it never quite gets old. It drives everyone else around me insane, but it fills me with such joy that I want to rush out and purchase any and all dogs within a ten mile radius (and makes me conveniently forget that the only dogs I'm not horrifically allergic to are poodle crossbreeds.) It's like visiting a pet store, where all the pets are not only loved and taken care of, but have their hair in rollers and are freely given monikers such as Glacier Creek's Whispering Wind, and Fleur De Lis Platinum Grandeulr (a Kuvasz and a Newfoundland, respectively.)
I imagine that after the show is over, the dogs urge their owners into their crates, and then head off for some cigars and brandy in the ultra exclusive Winners Lounge. There they toss their hair and smoke cigarettes from those fancy French looking holders, and discuss the perks of being pure bred perfection. They laugh at the misfortune of mutts, and nod knowingly as the conversation turns to how stupid humans are, and how unfortunate their trainers' choice of outfits were. They are the snooty, upper crust of the dog world.
And on Wednesdays, we wear pinkSince I was a kid, my family has had many dogs, but we've never actually shelled out the 3 grand or so to purchase an actual pure bred. This is mostly because 1) that's a buttload of money, 2) I'm hideously allergic to most dogs (which means all purebreds) , and 3) they're all inbred and insane. True story.
If you don't believe me, let me tell you the Tale of Katie. Katie is a 3 pound Yorkshire Terrier with a taste for human blood. All 10 or so inches of her are comprised solely of a demonic entity, and she spends her life hiding in tea cups, prowling beneath couches, and launching herself out of door jambs in order to satisfy her craving for human flesh. She is the "pet" of my mother's friend, and so on occasion we willingly bring her into our home while her owner is out making good use of his remaining limbs.
She runs shockingly fast for something that's a glorified rodent, and can jump from the floor straight up to the back of the couch with ease. Her teeth are razor sharp, as I found out first hand when she once lunged at me and sank her teeth in the ample flesh of my ass. I'd be running up the stairs to grab my phone, when she attacked, hurling herself off the back of the couch and chomping down on the flesh she so desired. It hurt like a bitch. And then the damn thing wouldn't get off - it was like she was going down to the depths of hell, and she was bringing me down with her.
Don't let the stylish bow and glossy, blown out hair fool you:
this is the face of pure evil
And so what if she's slightly retarded? She's sweet, she's adorable, and she doesn't make me sneeze. AND she tends to fall down stairs and walk into walls and trip over herself, all without getting hurt. No brain, no pain. And that's the way I like it.
If you don't believe me, let me tell you the Tale of Katie. Katie is a 3 pound Yorkshire Terrier with a taste for human blood. All 10 or so inches of her are comprised solely of a demonic entity, and she spends her life hiding in tea cups, prowling beneath couches, and launching herself out of door jambs in order to satisfy her craving for human flesh. She is the "pet" of my mother's friend, and so on occasion we willingly bring her into our home while her owner is out making good use of his remaining limbs.
She runs shockingly fast for something that's a glorified rodent, and can jump from the floor straight up to the back of the couch with ease. Her teeth are razor sharp, as I found out first hand when she once lunged at me and sank her teeth in the ample flesh of my ass. I'd be running up the stairs to grab my phone, when she attacked, hurling herself off the back of the couch and chomping down on the flesh she so desired. It hurt like a bitch. And then the damn thing wouldn't get off - it was like she was going down to the depths of hell, and she was bringing me down with her.
Don't let the stylish bow and glossy, blown out hair fool you:this is the face of pure evil
Katie has bit me several times since then, including once when she tore at my hand - and I do believe she was going for the vein there, hoping I'd bleed out so she could devour me without having to deal with me fighting back. I blame it on the generations of inbreeding before her, although her murderous rage could've been caused by her owner deciding to cut her hair himself. I know I get a little... crazy... after a bad hair cut.
At any rate, I think I'll stick with my mutts. The ones we've had are happier, more energetic, (a little more neurotic, although in an endearing way) and they still have fun names. Take a look:
1) Skeezicks. My dad's lifelong companion, whom he found rooting around in a pile of garbage in an alley way. What at first appeared to be a sickly gray dog was actually a thin, healthy white dog with a heart of gold. When I was born, Skeezicks would crawl under the dresser while I slept and watch over me. Oh, and in case you didn't know, my parents kept me in their sock drawer for the first few weeks of my life. Yes, a sock drawer. Explains a lot.
2) Satchmo O'Muttley. Satchmo was the most fitting Christmas present ever. My dad was engaged to a J2 at the time, living in a quaint, picturesque house with her three kids (and my brother and I a few days a week.) They thought it would be brilliant to bring in a small little puppy for us to love. Unfortunately, small little puppy only stayed small for about 2 hours, considering Satchmo was 1/3 Siberian Husky, 1/3 German Shepard, and 1/3 WOLF. By the time it was a month old it was the size of a moose, and delighted in knocking Rory over and dragging him around by his ankles. Needless to say, we had to give Satchmo away to a ridiculously excited 25 year old hiker and outdoors man. It was a true match made in heaven.
3) Nika. Nika was another "what the hell is this thing made of?" mutt, and to this day I'm not entirely sure what she actually was. At any rate, she was sweet, small, and ridiculously well behaved, which came in handy considering she was my current pseudo-stepmother's dog, and when my dad moved in with her we had two other dogs and two cats. Talk about insanity.
4) Sasha Madam Spotswoodle. Take a nervous, anxiety-ridden middle aged man who fears death, the dark, small spaces, crowds, and everything in between, translate that into dog form, and you have Sasha. A walking Xanax ad, she's sweet but insane. At least we know what she is - half Rottweiler, half Border Collie. Talk about bizarre breeding.
5) Jazz Bonehead. JAZZ. My Jazz. My reason for living. The only thing in this world that's inspired even somewhat motherly feelings to emit from me. Jazz is a "designer crossbreed" which sounds much fancier than it actually is. She's a Lhasapoo, meaning she has a Lhasa Apso mother and a Poodle father, and is bred not only for the intelligence, patience, and good cheer of the two breeds, but also because the coat of the Lhasapoo is non-allergenic. Whenever I touched any other of our dogs, I had to immediately go wash my hands and flush my goddamn eyes out, but I can cuddle Jazz and roll around with her for hours, and be fine. Which I do, because I'm insane. But how could you resist this face:
That's right, you can't.
At any rate, I think I'll stick with my mutts. The ones we've had are happier, more energetic, (a little more neurotic, although in an endearing way) and they still have fun names. Take a look:
1) Skeezicks. My dad's lifelong companion, whom he found rooting around in a pile of garbage in an alley way. What at first appeared to be a sickly gray dog was actually a thin, healthy white dog with a heart of gold. When I was born, Skeezicks would crawl under the dresser while I slept and watch over me. Oh, and in case you didn't know, my parents kept me in their sock drawer for the first few weeks of my life. Yes, a sock drawer. Explains a lot.
2) Satchmo O'Muttley. Satchmo was the most fitting Christmas present ever. My dad was engaged to a J2 at the time, living in a quaint, picturesque house with her three kids (and my brother and I a few days a week.) They thought it would be brilliant to bring in a small little puppy for us to love. Unfortunately, small little puppy only stayed small for about 2 hours, considering Satchmo was 1/3 Siberian Husky, 1/3 German Shepard, and 1/3 WOLF. By the time it was a month old it was the size of a moose, and delighted in knocking Rory over and dragging him around by his ankles. Needless to say, we had to give Satchmo away to a ridiculously excited 25 year old hiker and outdoors man. It was a true match made in heaven.
3) Nika. Nika was another "what the hell is this thing made of?" mutt, and to this day I'm not entirely sure what she actually was. At any rate, she was sweet, small, and ridiculously well behaved, which came in handy considering she was my current pseudo-stepmother's dog, and when my dad moved in with her we had two other dogs and two cats. Talk about insanity.
4) Sasha Madam Spotswoodle. Take a nervous, anxiety-ridden middle aged man who fears death, the dark, small spaces, crowds, and everything in between, translate that into dog form, and you have Sasha. A walking Xanax ad, she's sweet but insane. At least we know what she is - half Rottweiler, half Border Collie. Talk about bizarre breeding.
5) Jazz Bonehead. JAZZ. My Jazz. My reason for living. The only thing in this world that's inspired even somewhat motherly feelings to emit from me. Jazz is a "designer crossbreed" which sounds much fancier than it actually is. She's a Lhasapoo, meaning she has a Lhasa Apso mother and a Poodle father, and is bred not only for the intelligence, patience, and good cheer of the two breeds, but also because the coat of the Lhasapoo is non-allergenic. Whenever I touched any other of our dogs, I had to immediately go wash my hands and flush my goddamn eyes out, but I can cuddle Jazz and roll around with her for hours, and be fine. Which I do, because I'm insane. But how could you resist this face:
That's right, you can't.
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