Interlude: The Return of the Wacko Snowdogs

He's back!

Old Man Winter, that is...

And I, Bailey Blue, the Über-Kerry, am left to face him with characteristic fearlessness!



Snowdrifts as high as an Irish Wolfhound! This is sooooo tedious!

Well--the male human-lackey will just have to dig out a play-area in the back yard!

Okay, let's test the frozen waters...



I must say, I DO NOT LIKE WINTER ONE BIT! We Kerrys tend to sink in the snow, and if I disappear, they might not find me 'til spring.



Thank goodness that snow-blower works now! The mice built a nest in the carburetor, and Dad had to take the whole thing apart. Okay, let's bring out Bozo and see if he can stay out of trouble for five nanoseconds!



I'm bored. I'm SUPER-bored. Maybe I can torment Buster to the point that he'll need therapy!

Oh, I LOVE my work!

Now it's time to test-drive my new, "Chew-Resistant" bed! The humans just got it for me, 'cuz they think I've got a stomach ailment and they think I need rest. In truth, I keep erping because I accidently swallowed Buster's nose.



Poor Buster! All the excitement got him pretty dazed. I'll start pushing his buttons tonight, and he'll never know what hit him.



Ah...la vie est belle! Winter can't last, and I can sleep well, knowing that I'm good at what I do!



G'Night,

Bailey Blue

EYES <---Does theBUSTER have them???

To all of our Blog-Buddies...

Ms. Persephone here, I will attempt to reply to Stanley's inquiry regarding whether or not Buster actually possesses eyes <------peepers, bedroom eyes, drooooopy eyes, you know that wonderful connection to the soul -- sort of like "dreamy brown eyes"?



I confess that this may be the question of the year...considering it's the beginning of the year , we'll hike it up to the # ONE question of the year! One that has perplexed Bailey, me, and others of the family for some time now.

We think that Buster has eyes, but according to the GOD/DOG all that hair in his "fall" is supposed to filter all the bad "stuff" and only allow the good "stuff" through.... That's an old Irish saying about the Irish dogs that possess a fall.
So in the spirit of scientific observation, we invite you to join us in an important piece of seminal research on the subject of theBUSTER eyes!

We all know that I, Persephone, the Dark Goddess of Hades and Empress of the Underworld, have eyes! They are quite striking, don't you think? My humom calls them "snappy black eyes".

According to my dog-mom, Ms. Bailey, she is the original-snappy-black-eye-gurlie.
She does possess the set of peepers that has broken many a heart!



So it would follow, would it not, that Buster the Wonder Dog, my sibling, would have eyes, too! At least that's what Gregor Mendel thought.

So let's conscript a human camera-lackey and see if we can find them!

Field research! We shall embark upon a series of observations of the subject in his own habitat, using a carefully constructed double-blind* experimental model, factoring out the chance of false eye-sightings through the standard Chi Square test of the Null Hypothesis.



Observation Number One:

The subject is found in his ecological niche, performing a series of characteristic activities. The researchers draw closer and are fortunate to take a picture.

Do you see any eyes?
I see a smug-know-it-all-aura which seems to flow around the little bugger, but the eyes are still hidden behind the fall --- the massive veil of his fall.


Observation Number Two:
I see a little pink tongue there.
Gee, one would think the boy had never had a haircut in his life. Let it be known the humom trims...and trims....and trims some more every week or so.


Observation Number Three:
Yup a tongue <--------gee BUSTER you could touch your ears with that tongue.


Observation Number Four:
Well he must have eyes because he can find wilson. I guess that's not real scientific though.



Observation Number Five:

Still rather smug, theBUSTER is holding out on us <-----------notice that hint of a smile on his
beeeeeeUteeefull black-lippies!



Observation Number Six:
OK OK....stop writing about me... I'll explain this myself....I, theBUSTER, am in control! I have a very lush fall....and now I'm looking at YOU!!



Observation Number Seven:
Ho HuM... borrrrrring... what are these gurlies looking for anyhow?



Observation Number Eight:
DUH....of course I have eyes! S E E ?



Observation Number Nine:
Well then folks just come as close as you can!!! DO YA SEE IT????
HEY Stanley... you're my friend ....?
I'VE GOT TWO EYES...
ONE ON THIS SIDE
AND
ONE ON THE OTHER SIDE!
which scientifically one + one = TWO....
ONE -- TWO
SNAPPY BLACK EYES...! That I see all sorts of wonderful things with... very clearly I must say.


HAH !
Gotcha!
A big hairy eyeball to you all....
theBUSTER & the silly scientists... Ms. Persephone & Ms. Blue


*Double-Blind in this context refers to the obvious fact that neither we nor Buster know precisely what we are doing.

Boredom Beckons!

Okay. Mom's been gone for five hours, and I declare that a State of Boredom exists in placid, subarctic Connecticut!


What does one DO here in January? Watch the icicles form?



At least our friends across the Pond are being treated to a breathtaking, destructive winter storm ravaging the Continent!



What do WE get? Icy calm!

The temperature's falling at about the same rate as the New York Stock Exchange, and Sephie tells me it should be zero degrees Kelvin by noon Monday. Makes you wonder what kind of idiots would voluntarily leave lovely, Roundhead-vexed England to come here in the days when the climate was even worse!

Ahhhhh....There IS a way to break through the fog of ennui! When the going gets tough, the tough get, well leaping !

Truthfully, this scares Mom, but she's mercifully basking her tush beyond the Arctic Circle. Dad lets me do this!

There are three steps on the stairway to the back deck. The trick is to clear all three in one easy stride without slipping on the ice. Here's what it looks like:

All right, I know the airedales aren't impressed, but I don't have moose-legs!

Now we go to PART II -- The outrageously annoying, Buster-soothing, Squeaky Blue Orb!

Gotta think of more boredom-breakers...Any ideas?



Oh--Happy Australia Day to all my buddies in the Land of OZ !!

Cheers,

Buster the Bored

Notes from the BusterWorld Theme Park: Mommy's Back!

It's true! She's back from the Land of Alligators, and I'm one happy dog!

I always sleep better when she's next to me!

Only trouble is--she's leaving for Lake George in upstate New York tomorrow!

Brrrrr...... I hope she won't be gone long! That place is even colder than here...

I know she's gonna leave me with that crazed Bailey-dog! My Mom went to the Adirondacks and all I got was this lunatic creature and her duck!

G'night,

Buster

The Sacred Tartan of Clan O'Clancy

Hey, friends--it's Buster, back from a trek across the tundra! It got down to -26 C last night, which means it's time to put on the Sacred Tartan of Clan O'Clancy to keep my little blue tush warm! My tartan has magical powers derived from its singular role in the mists of time.



We four-legged Celts do cherish our tartans! They're more effective than three pints of Guinness Stout in making us brave and foolish.


When I'm scared, or freezing cold, I put on the Sacred Tartan of Clan O'Clancy, and somehow, things always work out!



Clan O'Clancy is especially distinguished. Years ago, my great, great grandfather, Seamus O'Clancy, attempted to drink his way from County Kerry to Australia, sampling every pub along the way. He made it as far as Connecticut, where he sired a litter of Kerry Blue pups and died of exhaustion.


Brendan Behan, the Irish playwright who claimed that his career as a drinker had been nearly ruined by unfortunate bouts of writing, said it best:

The Irish are a peculiar race, whom God created mad, For all their wars are happy, and all their songs are sad.

Seamus bequeathed to his descendants both his curious genetic legacy--a propensity to bark loudly at nothing in general--and his sacred tartan, which had been passed down to him from the remote and murky past.

Okay--so the motto's Scottish! It's the thought that counts...

Sometimes I'm overwhelmed with a sense of pride and responsibility! Anyway, warmed by the mythic powers of my tartan, I accompanied the male human on a secret mission to the local Chinese restaurant. I was entrusted with guarding the PT cruiser against potential threats by badgers, chipmunks, and lite beer salesmen.


With nerves of steel, I rode shotgun during the perilous journey! Dad was indeed impressed by my calmness in the face of danger.

At journey's end, I led my terrified, trembling human companion back to the warmth and comfort of the house.

Dad wanted nothing more than to relax--but first, he had to be cheered up with a demonstration of my highly choreographed, precison whirling-and-barking. Pretty fierce, huh?

Then, and only then, did I choose to relax my guard and adjourn to my bed.


It has been a good day! My Mom gets back from Florida Monday night. I must conceive new ways to torment her. Any ideas? Cheers,

Buster

An Unsolicited Observation Regarding Buster

Dearest friends:

This is your faithful correspondent, Persephone, writing to describe a most troubling phenomenon.

Have you noticed that, in any day's worth of photos, it is always the female subjects who face the camera with decorum and dignity?



When certain members of the opposite gender find themselves in the camera's eye--well, you get the picture!


Note particularly the position of the mouth when we girls pose for our public. It is discretely closed!


Conversely, when His Nibs happens to find himself in front of the lens, fourteen inches of tongue protrude!



Is it in the DNA? We girls just have a natural sense of dignity.


Maybe Bozo the Wonder Dog was dropped on his head early in life. Or maybe, he's the long-lost twin of...


Mick Jagger!


There most certainly appears to be an uncanny resemblance.


Of course, Buster insists that he's smarter. Much smarter.


But smart has nothing to do with an outlandish propensity to extend one's tongue until it reaches the stratosphere!


"Your point?" says Buster. Plainly, he's happy as a clam being just the way he is, tongue extended, and generally goofy. I suppose Bailey and I will have to live with it!

Cordially,

Persephone

My Arctic Diary: by Buster

I awoke this morning to the 785th day of Arctic Captivity. Ice everywhere! The temperature was -21 degrees C. Looking at Persephone, I considered cannibalism but rejected it. After all, we are Englishmen. On second thought, we are not. Maybe cannibalism has its advantages.




The snowbirds came and stared mutely at us. I reflected that Mom's in Florida, and we're eating whale blubber up here in the Land of the Midnight Sun. Or Connecticut. Whichever is colder...



Times are hard. A lone polar bear wandered over and complained that his 401K was worth less than a "Bush/Cheney 2004" bumper sticker.


Worse, I am suffering from snow-blindness. My normally razor-sharp eyesight has deteriorated during my Arctic captivity to the point where...well...observe!

Pitiful, isn't it! I tried again, hoping that things would improve, but....

Sigh! I hope that a rescue expedition is on its way. I dream of sunshine and the smell of barbecue and languid afternoons chasing chipmunks.

Send help,
Buster

"Nobody Expects the Spanish Inquisition"--in which our Penitent Buster is examined by the Inquisitors and subjected to the Ordeal.

The following post should not be viewed by children under six months of age, poodles, or persons who think that Monty Python is a reptile:

Dear Fellow Reprobates:

Upon my Word, it transpired in the Juvenescence of the New Year: I was Summoned before their Lordships, the Most Righteous and Honourable Officers of The Inquisition.


It seems that some things I had published (perchance in this very blog?) had offended Their Most Serene Highnesses, the very Authors of this selfsame Inquisition,

Ferdinand II of Aragon

(Methinks he suffereth from a bad case of hemorrhoids.)

And Isabella I of Castile

(Verily, do you not think that she is hot?)

My fecund imagination assembled together all the unspeakable horrors that awaited me within The Chamber!




But I was ready! Quoting the Late George II of the Dark Realms of of the Kingdom of Barney, I shouted, "Bring it on!"



As recorded by the Chief Inquisitor himself, I submit to you my Personal Ordeal.

First:

The Display of the Implements of Torture, followed by their Judicious Application without shred of Mercy:

The Inquisitor was heard to say, "He's not confessing, sire--he's made of sterner stuff!"

So they brought out a device that surpassed even the Iron Maiden in its ability to extract an auto-de-fey: The Abominable Snow Shovel!

Yea, I did not Confess! So the Inquisitor pulled out all the stops and produced an Agony of such unimaginable intensity that words fail me:

I lapsed into a coma. Or a nap. I cannot remember. Yet, confess, I did NOT!


Oh, my...that was a scary dream! My mom always told me that I have an outrageous imagination for a canine. Maybe I'll right a novel about the time when the Armada foundered off the coast of Ireland, and the Portuguese Water Dogs (faithful ship-to-ship messengers) swam ashore, mating with the native terriers to produce-- My Ancestors!

Or maybe I'll just take a nap.

Your faithful correspondent,

Buster