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Archive for the ‘confession’ Category

Mutt-Mitt Mystery


I did my laundry today (thank you very much) and when I took my clothes out of the dryer, there were 9 green Mutt Mitt bags mixed with the clothes. Nine.

How does this happen? I have no idea where these came from. I check the pockets before washing and it’s not like I have a wide assortment of pants (I don’t think it’s necessary to elaborate on this to you, my faithful readers).

Most people lose a sock or something – I gain Mutt Mitts.

Anyway, this is really bothering me and I wanted to share with you.

– mojo-daddy

P.S. Is anyone missing any Mutt Mitts?

Mojo’s Birthday and I’m Losing It…


Mojo will be 2 at the end of this month.

Yawn. No big deal, and hardly even worth posting…


Disclaimer: Some things are better left unsaid. This is one of those things. As much as I’d really Really REALLY *REALLY* like to just end the story here, close the browser, log off, and “Move Awaaaaay From The Computer” – I feel oddly compelled to share.

Suffice it to say, Mojo’s my child (well, according to the so-called “Court” anyway, but I demand a DNA test – oops, sorry, that’s another story).

So yesterday, in the 1 minute and 43 seconds of “me time” I got last night while Mojo was eating, I started thinking about having a birthday party. For Mojo.

To be clear, A Birthday Party For Mojo. The. Dog.

Note: This “weirdens” the story a bit, but still prolly’ not too big a deal. In fact, I know more than a few people who have had Doggy Birthday Bashes – names and pictures available upon request, for a small, uhh, donation.

Anyway, I should have just stopped at A Birthday Party For Mojo.

But I didn’t.

Energized by the 1 minute and 43 seconds of sheer “I can do whatever I want” freedom, I allowed myself to wander further down The one-way, not-even-close-to-the-beaten Path. The “Uh, you’re starting to scare me, bro” Path…

Ok, so I mused about having a party with about 400-500 of his Closest Dog (“We’ve sniffed each other and have the T-Shirt to prove it”) Buddies – maybe even some cats (with signed waivers) and a certain dwarf horse (don’t ask). Perhaps even turn it into a Meetup.

I really really really should have stopped there.

But I didn’t…

While planning the details of The Second Birthday Party for Mojo, it transformed into The “Surprise” Second Birthday Party for Mojo.

Ruh Roh.

Or, like the poop-bag signs say, “GULP!” (side note: I don’t know if it’s just me, but I kind of do a silent-internal-dry-heave and make a vow-to-drink-bottled-water-from-now-on every time I read one of those signs – GROSS. But I digress…).

I had clearly day-dreamt myself over The Line.

What started as just another Happy And Cute Doggy Event had become some twisted, bizarre, anthropomorphic, psychology case study.

Before I realized what was happening, it was too late. What was now a logistically-complex plan, had eerily taken detailed form…

  • I would first take Mojo out for a Birthday Dinner, nonchalantly pretending that this was a routine night on the town like any other… At Los Patios, natch, where the kind waitstaff would gather ’round and sing “Happy Birthday to Mojo” while holding a free raw hotdog topped off with an ‘Ol Roy Snack Candle on a souvenir paper plate.
  • Mojo would act surprised, roll on/in the hotdog, grab the plate in his mouth and shake it violently, eat some of the remaining plate, proceed to shmooze with the crowd, scarf some digits, make a few “let’s sniff sometime, I’ll call ya” playdates, and then we would eventually leave.
  • We would then go through our usual get-in-the-car ritual where I open the passenger-side car door for him, let him in, give him a peck on the cheek, and then go around to let myself in.
  • I would ever-so-ho-humly chauffeur him back to a dark house full of quiet dog friends, humans, and assorted anonymous party crashers (with a rental Very Strong Fan blowing all scents toward the back of the house).
  • We would then go through our getting-out-of-the-car ritual. I would get out first, go around to his side, open the door, give him a kiss on his cold-wet-dog-nose, and then escort him up the walkway (on a loose-leash, of course – heck, this is my daydream, after all).
  • Approaching the front door, I would chuckle to myself, proceed to open the door, and everyone would shout “Surprise” (or “woof” or “meow,” whatever), when we entered.
  • The lights would come on, bright flash photos would accompany party horns, whistles, clickers, bells, live music (Three Dog Night), rolling wheelchairs and shaking sacks of aluminum cans and assorted rocks (thanks, Jimmy), and pots and pans dropped on the tile floor (thanks, Isai), and confetti – to fully ensure Mojo would never, ever, ever forget this very special moment.

Sweet, I thought. Mojo would have an awesome second birthday party.

Then it hit me. Big Time.

I must be crazy.

What was I thinking?

A Surprise Party? He’s a Dog!

Holy Cow!

I mean, really – there’s absolutely no way that a fan (even an industrial rental fan) could possibly keep him from smelling everyone before we came in.

Anyway, I need help. Serious. Help.

– mojo-daddy

Important Side Note: Denny’s “Free Birthday Grand Slam” for “Kids 10 and Under” does not include dogs (yes, I asked). They really should mention that in their advertising, it could mislead other people besides me – right?

Yikes, I Bought a Purse!


Not that there’s anything wrong with buying a purse, I just never thought those words would emanate from my mouth… or keyboard… in this lifetime, anyway.

But I did. Really, I did. For Mojo. Well, that’s my excuse, anyway, and I’m sticking to it.

I tell myself that maybe it wasn’t really a purse, but some type of general-purpose bag.

But, since it was in the purse section, and the tag said “purse,” I guess it must be a purse. Fortunately, I bought it at 5 am when weird is the Walmart norm.

Ok, so why did I buy a purse? I needed a simple (yet stylish) over-the-shoulder bag for Delta visits. One that would keep my hands free, yet enable me to carry “accessories” that probably weigh twice as much as Mojo – towel, treats, poop-bags, Purell, paperwork, Moji-cards, brush, hair-removal thingee that I have no idea when I’d ever use it, treats, etc.

Yeah, I know, I know – I could’ve bought a duffel bag, a Manly Bag. And it would carry the same stuff and I could use it for other events also. Manly Events. Football. Baseball. Basketball (men’s, of course). Hockey. Shootin’ Skeet. But the duffel bags were just a tad too big – and, frankly, the colors clashed with my outfit.

Anyway, if anyone’s looking for me, I’ll be at Hooters drinking beer, shootin’ pool, playin’ darts, watchin’ sports and oglin’ the wait staff.

After that, I’ll be sewing some patches on my new purse.

All kidding aside, it matches my shoes and belt quite well, and is very practical, spacious, non-assuming, yet functional and diversified for multiple occasions.

Thank Dog that no one actually reads this drivel…

— mojo-daddy

Confession Time…


I’ve been feeling pretty guilty for the past few days and need to ‘fess up…

On the Stone Oak Park walk, Mojo pooped on a cactus. I don’t know how he does that, but he did – he must really think it’s funny or something, I dunno.

Anyway, I tried to pick it up. Really. But the cactus was one of those real sticky ones covered with barely-visible needle-thin thorns that are impossible to touch…

So I left it there.

And it’s been bothering me quite a bit.

So, I’m thinking a) from now on I carry some gardening tools and gloves on a hike, or b) I find some existing non-Mojo dog poop in the wild (of comparable size and shape, natch) and pick it up to redeem myself. Or maybe both. I could go back to Stone Oak Park with a shovel, chainsaw, hedgers, gloves, and a 3-ply bag and try to retrieve the Mojo-cactus-poop, but a) it would be tough to find, and b) if someone saw me with a shovel, chainsaw, hedgers, gloves, a 3-ply bag, and Mojo – they might call the police.

Anyway, I just had a glass of tap water and it tasted funny, so I thought I should warn you all.

— mojo-daddy