Tag Archives: Talk

buddy dog adviseLife is funny, ya know. I mean, I’m just a dog, right? And I’m expected to give some kind of advice, some kind of commentary every time Amy or Charlie have trouble in the land of love. I’m just a dog, I tell them. But they don’t seem to care. They continue with the rant, and each of them have a rant so important that I can’t nap, I can’t look for cats, mice, or even eat without them following me all over the house. Is this normal? I mean, wasn’t I supposed to be for cuddling, holding so close to add warmth? Were they not supposed to tell me how cute I was every time they saw me? I don’t get that anymore. I think they are going through a scratch patch–in our terms, a relationship problem. But that is how we work. Brozios and bruzias, all the same: they need to see each other as bounce boards, something they can reach out for when they have trouble. They can also be there for one another when times are good.

Now these scratch patches are frequently occur when their is a new fence to jump. Sometimes it takes four of five missed jumps to go over that fence; the other three or four jumps are only smashed faces against the fence. But, that’s how we learn, right? Failure on our way to success–that’s what I’m talking about. In a relationship, I tried to tell them, there will always be problems: who gets the pillow tonight? Who get the last treat? Who decided how long the nap will be? These are all questions we all ask.


Little Richie


Little Richie walks into the living room, smelling the air floating along the lower end of the furniture, looking for Buddy at the other. He spots Buddy and runs as gracefully as possible toward the green sofa, the same green sofa most visitors relax upon. Richie falls forward, sliding just enough for the friction his chin is feeling to get warm. He turns his head to signal to Buddy that he’s alright. Youth.

“Well, Buddy, I just don’t know? You ask me if I love her, and I say Yes, definitely. She should know that. I take her things on her birthday, don’t I? I never forget that day.  Got it written in a book so I don’t forget.”

Buddy walks over to take a sip of cool water before returning to his spot on the couch. He has a little trouble adjusting and making himself comfortable. “I mean it takes more than that, Richie. It’s not about what you think she wants, as I have said many, many times, it’s what she wants to begin with. Ya see? If you don’t take the time to see what she wants, then you are not listening but making decisions based on what you want. That’s true consideration, my friend. It’s really not that complicated, Richie. So when did the clouds arrive in town?”


“When did the trouble begin, Rich?”

“Oh, the other night, we were discussing what we each expected out of this relationship.”

“NO! That’s the worst kinda of conversation to have, Richie. It  becomes a list of things that you are responsible for; now these things have to be done, and done really well. You put yourself in a corner with not way out. Oh, no! Did she have a list of things that she expected from you? Did she read them aloud? Did she nod her head to you after reading each one? At the end, did she smile and say ‘your turn?’  And, let me guess, you didn’t know what to say, right? You were so confused that you forgot where you were; you forgot your name; you forgot what her name was; you forgot where you left your keys, right? And, you forgot you were a brozio, right?  And do you want to know why? Because you’re not a Bro no mo! When you lose your voice, you lose your cojones!”

“Uh…right. How did you know, Bud? Were you there? I didn’t see you? ”

“At your  place, no. But, I’ve been there–the situation.”

“So, what do I do, Bud, I’m so confused?”

“Let me think.” After a few minutes…”Okay, here’s what you do.”

…to be continued


She just hangs up


Buddy and Gary sit, quietly sipping on some new exotic coffee drink recommended to them by the barista, a young twenty-something, who goes by the name Four, as in the number.
Gary scratches his hind leg with his left paw, rapidly. Buddy watches him with a slight glance of the eyes.

“So right in the middle of the brief conversation, everything goes silent. ‘Hello. Hello,’ I say. Then, Buddy, I receive a text message from Gwen. Sometimes, it’s four or five texts in a row–140 characters, you know. It usually starts with an apology for not talking on the phone. She says it’s the cell phone, cancer thing. But she’s stopped using that one. Then she will send a picture of herself eating something like dessert, in a strange standing pose. Does this seem odd to you? I mean, face to face would be great, but I would even settle for a few minutes talking on the phone; two cans with string; anything. I really don’t think it’s so much to ask.”

“Nah, not too much. Maybe she has commubia.”

“Is that when a person can only communicate with a cell phone or pictures, but is fear-struck when real, face to face verbal communication takes place?”

“Yes it is, Gary; and, most of the communication is done by texting on the phone, not by talking on the phone. I’ve read that many have developed severe cases of commubia and, as of yet, they have found no simple remedy other than complete separation from the communication device. They even hold weekend clinics which set out to cure this modern, social malady. Success varies, depending on the individual, experts say. Is she young and restless? Is she one of the bruzias who spends constant hours on her device texting? Okay, Gary, does she have ADD?”

“Does she have ADD? Yes, but she has the other ADD. You know, it’s the close cousin to not being able to focus and concentrate. She has ADD+, where she doesn’t receive enough attention. Now that’s true Attention Deficit Disorder. But that doesn’t explain her inability to hold a conversation other than in text messages.

“If we only had a way to communicate with others without texting or speaking to them face to face, Buddy, that would be amazing!”

“We do, it’s called writing letters; and we gave that up decades ago, along with lobotomies, Corvairs, and panel wagons. Okay, let me explain something to you.”

to be continued…


Holly.cheerleader“Okay, this is just about enough for me, Buddy. I can’t take it. I’m getting very annoyed with Howard.”
“Hold on, Holly. Can I have a little of my bagel before you start in on the issues? I love bagels and cream cheese; and when you put some marmalade on it, forget about it. Oh, and this coffee is the best French Dream. It’s good to be alive! Would you like some?”

“No. Thank you, though.”

Buddy puts the cream cheese and marmalade on his bagel and slowly sips his dark, French Roast Dream, the hot liquid that helps him see things more clearly, smile a little brighter, especially when reading the paper in the morning; he even talks a little faster after his first sip from his favorite bone-shaped cup.  They have only been in the cafe for about fifteen minutes, exchanging short but polite phrases, as is customary, when Holly begins to explain the details of her issue with Howard.

“Why does he continue to talk about his past, as if it had just happened this morning?  I don’t get it. This was in high school, a time of growth and maturing, fun and laughter, heartache and tears. It seems that Howard only experienced one thing during those four years, and it’s all wrapped up in one Friday night, for about four minutes. Does a football game really mean that much to a guy? I mean, it’s not like it was a professional game or anything.  It was just high school!  He likes talking about his friends in high school, too. Is it just me, or does this seem a little strange that a guy in his twenties would still be living in his high school world? He still sees his friends at least once a week. He calls them his dream team, his entourage. I’ve seen them together, all five of them.  They are still talking about high school sports and joking about people they haven’t seen in years. How long will this go on? Will he be sixty years old when he finally wakes from his high school dream? It’s pathetic!  And, I’m bored.”

“Holly, what do you talk about when you go out? What is the point of topic? Is it about you, your present life, your past, or is it about Howard?”

“Well, I usually just listen to him–and he gives everything in great detail.  Sometimes he adds to the story, just to make it a little longer. The first time, it was twenty-one yards to the end zone where he miraculously caught the game-winning pass. The next time, it was forty-two yards; then, it was seventy yards.  This, of course, was followed by hundreds, no thousands, of cheers, then handshakes, and pats on the back. I don’t get it. How can this story just keep growing and growing? Maybe it’s a guy thing to exaggerate everything–I’m sorry, I mean: color the story differently.”

“Just how many different topics does he talk about when you get together? Is it fewer than five?”

“I would say two: his friends and his four-minute football feat. I think he believes it to be greater than growing up. He seems to want to stay in that moment forever, and never leave that time. His ten year reunion is coming up in three years and he’s already making plans…and with me.  Maybe that’s his issue. Peter Pan? Believe me, there are more important things to talk about in this life.”

“What do you talk about, Holly?”

“Oh, I was a cheerleader.”

Buddy sighs…



Benjamin (2)

yellow.labAs the door opens, Jerry, Charlie’s editor, walks in and shakes Charlie’s hand. “How’s it going, Charlie?”  With a sleepy smile, Charlie chihuahua1responds, “Good. I’m good. Come on in. Want some coffee?”

“Sure would.”

The two sit to talk.

Benjamin, Jerry’s young lab, comes in running toward Buddy’s day bed.  Buddy just lays there quietly until Benjamin has exhausted some of his energy.

“Now, Buddy, I have a problem.  I really need to talk to you. You see I met this bruzia, her name is Cha-Cha-Boom… but she has no hair–well, maybe a little.  She’s light brown, smooth, and I could just lick her face all day; but that’s too soon, right? And there is a problem.  The only problem is that she talks too much. She talks about everything. It’s like the whole world is ’bout her and herself. Anyway, her hair; her nails; her diet; her exercise; her shopping; and her weight–and I’m just getting started. Five minutes! Five minutes is all it took to read her book, Buddy. I don’t know what to do. Should I tell her to just SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!? If I do that, I’ll never be able to lick her face, will I?”

“Okay, Beni, are you done? Let me giveya a little advice. Bruzias are no different than women. They gotta talk; and talk; and talk; and talk some more.  And it doesn’t matter ’bout what.  They just gotta talk. I think this is how they reaffirm to themselves a sense of who they are. They know who they are; now they want you and whoever will listen to know. And if there is any little change in who they are, well, they’ll let you know ’bout that too. Follow me? Tell me, is this one a Chihuahua? Chihuahuas talk too much. The mouth never stops. I only say that because Charlie says that many owners resemble their brozios. And, in most cases, if a bruzia talks a lot, so does her owner. Tell me, does Cha-Cha Boom’s owner look like her? Does she have short hair and a long, pointed snout?

This is what you do, and quickly: Lick her face. Just lick her face. Maybe she’ll lick your face. Done!”