arthurcorgi

The Best Dog in the Whole Wide World, 1992-2008

The light had not caught up with the robin's song this bracing early April day when my best friend of 16 years slipped over to the other side to be with some of the better bipeds of his wide acquaintance, several middling cats and a sure menagerie of nature's phenomenal creatures, none more loved than His Highness of long and short stature.

Never a true dog person, as loyal readers of this blog and companion fan club letter no doubt have gathered, I tried the best I could.  Even though the loyalty was reciprocal, I could not duplicate the concentrated, steadfast devotion poured on me by the Blog Star, particularly in his younger days before stardom, and the pressures which inevitably follow, competed with his instinct to put the interests of the pack ahead of all others.  Though I was the lone stand-in for numerous bipedal members much of the time , no giver of rides in the car or taker for walks in the woods was ever consigned second rate status by the Leader of the Pack, whose name will forever be etched on our aching hearts.

To say he was smart - well, that would be a bit gauche.  He could differentiate between the popular songs, "Happy Birthday to You," which was like a 10 alarm fire bell to him, and "Happy Trails to You," which rated barely a mention.  One evening while viewing a rerun of "The Waltons," an excellent family program, Erin, I believe it was, had a birthday.  All the Waltons, John-Boy, Grandpa, Elizabeth and the rest, began to sing the familiar tune, and a certain tricolor Pembroke Welsh Corgi jumped off the couch and ran straight to the offending television to remonstrate.  He never wavered in his likes and dislikes.  That is the sign of a true conservative.

Some say he had a remarkable vocabulary.  One cringes waiting for the patronizing qualifier, "for a dog," but he learned to make it work for him, like Festus' limp or Long John Silver's eye patch.  Recalling his communication skills today, a close family member recalled the words 'b-e-a-c-h' spelled out, and 'squirrel.'  'Fly' was another buzz word, you should pardon the pun.  'Ride,' 'car,' and 'walk' were especially meaningful, as well. 

Remember that for much of his blogging career, he led a dual life:  one, an aging, but important canine; the other, a legend.   A friend stated today upon hearing the sad news, "He was one of the best bloggers I've ever read, even for a Republican. "  Clearly, his appeal was universal.   

It will no longer be necessary to save a piece of my cinnamon and sugar donut or a portion of dinner.   Habits acquired over so many years are hard to break.   Will I ever be able to pass the grocery store treat shelf or a Pizza Hut without hesitating, if just for a moment, before I remember that my true pal is probably supping on filet mignon with Lassie in the Great Beyond?

We have decided that cremation would be his choice as a Buddhist.  All is illusion, except the colors of M&M's.   The beach will be his final resting spot, to use a worn out c cliché.  Already my standards are slipping.

When he was a mere pup he used to get me up in the morning by jumping on the bed and licking my face.  When I'd go away for a stretch, he wouldn't eat, even allowing the cats to have his food.  Upon my return he'd poke his nose in my bag or suitcase, sure to pull out a shoe, a sock or underwear, along with the leftover chocolate cake or Steak Pommes Frites, my being a liberal and all into French food.  His limited dog school training vanished completely, jumping and racing around and barking for joy.

So, to Arthur, handsome dude, best boy and excellent dog, you will be with me always in my heart.  Til we meet again.   --The Boss--

It's My Birthday, World

Actually it was on the 12th.  I am 16.  My publisher thinks we should tie in my birthday celebration with St. Patrick's Day, because pretty much everyone is Irish in Ameica if it means you can drink green beer.  If we put up a PayPal donation button, drunken people reading my blog will give us $200.00 instead of $20.  or even $2.00. 

But back to me.  It isn't every day you meet a 16 year-old Welsh Corgi Pembroke with his own blog and servants.  Of course, I still haven't heard back from Tracey Rosengrave, the "agent" who wrote me a Dear Arthur, We Love Your Blog Pay Us Some Money And We Will Publish You letter.   I am doing just fine without her, thank you very much, but she will regret not snapping me up while I was still somewhat affordable.

Here is where I was this weekend.  The boss and me were on a secret mission.   We ate pizza twice.   

    

    

Theodore

This column is about Ted.  He was a one-eyed gray cat that used to live with us.  He ran away, and it broke the boss' two-timing heart.

Ted was born in a turkey box, because his mother was a homeless, free-loading tramp that the boss said could eat, sleep and play at our house.  She played, all right.  Three kittens later ...

Ted's brother was Seamus.  We called him that because he could not help himself from snooping into everything including the upright freezer which he got shut in.  Good thing Miss Manager decided to add more blueberries to the cake she was baking, or Seamus would have been a catsicle.  Total dope.

Ted caught a cold when he was a kitten.  His mother moved him around, because she did not trust yours truly, and so she took him outside, only it was cold.  So Ted got an eye problem from the cold, and he had to have surgery.  The doctor operated on him, and Ted came back with only one eye.

Everybody at the doctor's office wanted to adopt him.  He had "personality." Well, we spent a lot of money on this Ted, so, naturally, we wanted to get our money's worth.  He learned how to catch mice and play with a spool of thread from the sewing machine.  When the boss was sewing.

He never got in trouble or got yelled at.  "Teddy Bear, my Sweetie Pie. "  "Come here, Ted.  I have a filet mignon for you."  "Ted, would you like to sleep on the pillow?  Is it soft enough for you, Ted?"

This went on for quite some time.  We named him Teddy Bear because management said that there were a lot of real good teddy bears with only one eye.  This is the type of discussion the people around here have.  And I have a business to run.

He was homely, just plain gray, not one stripe or spot anywhere except a splotch of white on his stomach which you could not see unless he was sprawled out somewhere snoring, and his tail curled up like a question mark - as if he would know.  He would not get even one point in a cat show, yet to hear some people, you would think he was Leo the Lion himself.

Ted ran away and did not come back.  Maybe he joined the navy or something. 

Cute

I have written before about the cat problem.  But it is still a problem.  So I need to write another column. 

Some teen aged biped sent a video to this guy Chris.  It is of her cat, Donut. 

I am a very big fan of chocolate cake donuts with chocolate frosting.  Also glazed  coffee rolls with a cappuccino - whole milk, not skim -  and sugar.  And chocolate sprinkled on the top.  In a bowl like you are supposed to drink it, not a stupid mug made in China. 

Donut is stupider than most of the cats I have personally known.  Tomorrow I will write a column about Ted, our one-eyed gray cat.  Management loved him even more than me, if such a thing is possible. Maybe she loves me a little bit more.  You cannot blame her.

You must review this video for yourself.  It is the liberal media at work.  Donut should get a job at a barn or a landfill.  Instead the liberals tell her she is no good for Hollywood.  She will probably go on welfare because of it.  W-o-r-k.  That is what made America great.  Not kitten videos.

Bad dog

Once again, spies are copying my ideas.  However, the boss is going to send in my picture for next year's calendar.  I should be on the cover.

I am an original - unlike this fake mutt. 

Crack

This is for all the liars who say that Barney's father was a drug user.  First of all, I say it takes one to know one.  How do you know he was using drugs unless you were too?  So we should believe you? 

Second of all, rich people from Texas ride around their ranch all day, and then they eat barbeque.  They do not smoke crack.  The only smoking they do is on a mesquite grill.

Barney's ranch is called Prairie Chapel.  It is 1583 acres.  I suppose that is a magic number or something.

It is not very nice to make fun of someone when he says, "Because the - all which is on the table begins to address the drivers," and things like that and then say it is because he is on drugs that his brain cannot get the words out of his mouth to make sense.

I thought all you liberals liked the disabled.

Boxing Day (from the Archives)

Today is Boxing Day in Jolly Olde England. Even though I am a Welsh American, I appreciate the Queen. She has such excellent taste in canine companions.

See here for the rest of my very fine column.

Merry Christmas! (even to cats)

It is not like me to care.  Well, not about anyone but myself - and the boss, because she brings Croque Monsieur - that is French for grilled ham and cheese - and chocolate Santas. 

I must be in a good mood or something, because today I was nice to a couple of cats.  I was eating some leftover stirfry with broccoli and beef - I have always been a broccoli man - cucumbers. too - also apples - sliced and peeled by the biped servants - anyway, as I was saying, I was eating a snack of stirfry waiting for management to rearrange my headquarters and give me fresh clean bedding. 

Along come several cats.  I let them eat the rice and onions.  And I happen to like rice.  I am sure it would count as sharing, even though I ate most of the beef pieces.  They probably got some by accident.  That would make it double sharing, because I like rice and I like beef.

It is sunny today.  Not snowy.  It is not white.  So what?  It is Christmas.  I am sharing and caring.

Merry Christmas to all my blog friends and everyone else, too!

tout tout tout le monde

Today is Barney's party.  I could not be there.  As  all of my loyal blog readers and fan club members know, I am on the No Fly List because I bit a baggage inspector at O'Hare.  Instead we are tele-partying.  They sent me actual real time food and party favors.  Barney's people offered to hire management as a servant, so I would not feel like I was having a second-rate time, but she told them to stick it.  Good thing they understand about me living with a liberal.  I do not need her as a servant anyway.   She opened the box of party food for me.  That is enough.

They sent a cheese ball, filet de boeuf, Santa cookies, mini triple sausage pizzas, which, OK I take it back, the boss had to warm up, chicken nuggets and caviar.  Also a stocking which I will hang by the chimney with care, ho ho ho, and a picture of Barney. 

Barney is not trying to be green or anything. He is just nice.  Some of us old dogs cannot stay up late any more at parties even if they are at the White House, and there is a raccoon practically tap dancing on our head.  We cannot hear too much or see, but we still appreciate pizza and cookies.  Also ravioli.  And M&M's.  And Cheetos.

Last year I went to the party on Air Force 3, but this year Miss Beazley got to use the plane for her friends.  I do not believe in sharing or being fair, so I do not think Miss Beazley should have any rights.   She is a dope.

LIVE UPDATE:  Here is what everyone is talking about:  Mutt Romney.   We thought it might be a big, fat, liberal lie when the Boston Globe printed that story about his Setter. Let me be the first to say this:  Setters are stupid.  Still, it was really bad.  Man, that guy - I don't care if he is a conservative, and he has family values - NOT.   What do you expect?  He is from Massachusetts -  Liberalville.  It rubs off on a person. 

Jackson and Dave just showed up.  You talk about ... I mean they are supposed to get there before Barney and Miss Dip S*it Beazley - I know I do not allow swearing, but she is the WORST!  Their people are pretty weird.   Jackson dressed up like Darth Vadar for Halloween.  Dave was Superman.  Doesn't that tell you something?  Bizarre.  The boss once wanted me to wear reindeer antlers to be in the ReinDog Parade.  I went behind the bed, and I would not come out for 12 hours.  I wear a plaid bow tie on Christmas.  That's as far as it goes.  And a black one for New Year's Eve.

I sent Barney a new board game called Nazi Hunter for Christmas.  Since he is moving to Paraguay, I thought it would be fun.  The Nazis are pretty old.  But there are new ones.  Barney's great grandfather was a front man  sensible business man, and he made a lot of money off the Nazis  did not mean to sell out America get caught upset anyone because they thought he was a traitor bad guy.  The business of America is business.  So what if he got advance tips on stuff?  So what if his Nazi friends business associates needed a place to stash their cash if the peasants revolted?       

MORE LIVE FROM THE WHITE HOUSE:  Alan Greenspaniel is at the party, hanging around the punch bowl a little too much, if you ask me.   India the cat just pulled the caviar and crudites off a side table.  God, why did they let her in?

   

The 'A' List Calls Me

Barney Bush

and Miss Beazley Bush

request the pleasure

of your company

to help them celebrate

Christmas at the White House.

Saturday, December 15, 2007

6 o’clock

The White House

R.s.v.p.