bereft of minion

During our morning strategy meeting, Remaining Minion informed me that she's using part of her 463 available vacation days to go to some godforsaken, mosquito-infested, dusty, humid country that was last in the news simply because most of it got erased during Hurricane Mitch. When she got that glassy, do-gooder look in her eyes, I cut the conversation short before another one of her tedious lectures about economic disparity. The rich live in bigger houses because they're better than us, Minion! Aspire to live above your trailer park beginnings, for chrissake! Anyway, although this will limit my blog for the next week, I'm delighted to report that Minion's place will be taken by her Amazonian friends, Becca and Joanna, who are ridiculously easy to train. Welcome, temps!

callous indifference

Despite numerous protests -- some organized through grassroots efforts and others involving corporate sponsorship -- the Remaining Minion refuses to cease her habit of dunking me into a vat of water and scrubbing away the various rocks, bits of dried god-knows-what, and flecks of leaves. Personally, I believe what's on my belly is a reminder of the day, a madeleine worthy of Proust that, once sampled, brings back the glory of tackling a puggle unawares, or the scent of dead fish rooted out from the dog park leaves. But then, with one scrub-scrub-scrub of her pedestrian shampoo (not even Aveda!), it all circles the drain, lost forever. Cruelty and abuse comes to the house of Ambrose.

ambrosia ambrosioides

Sadly, thanks to a ridiculous promise made to "the shelter people," my Remaining Minion removed the possibility of Ambrose Juniors romping about the world, ridding backyards of poo and mouthing off to squirrels in perpetuity. Alas. So, I've decided to try the botanical route and see if I can't "grow my own," in the most literal sense. As you can see, the first crop is promising, although the tulips are a bit of a surprise. I think nodding off while reading the animal husbandry book may have been a mistake. Anyway, grow fledgling Ambrose, grow!

I'm worth it

Lately, I've become disheartened by the shoddy workmanship shown in the available chewtoy options. Also, the breadth of garish colors, ridiculous shapes (a "loofah dog"? Go fuck yourself), and nauseating aromas -- from petroleum to "bacon" -- has made me question whether we, as a dog-centered society, have lowered our standards permanently or if this is just some aberration in terms of quality control. Some might see this as snobbish, but truly, is it so reprehensible to have higher standards than the mutt-laden, dirty-pawed Wal-Mart chewtoy crowd? I guess there's a place in the world for those who don't enjoy snacking on cashmere sweaters, but that's not a place I want to visit.

digital soulmates?

For reasons which are clear to every well-groomed, handsome, and debonair dog-about-town, I've grown so weary of the park scene for meeting potential mates. It's always the same old saw about, "I'll be your bitch" (really? I need to hear this tiresome cliche again? ) or, "Join my small dog playgroup," which invariably means there's some bi-curious poodle involved at some point. So, I thought I'd try this nouvelle dating arena, the online matchup. While perusing the Craigslist personals for Boston, I came upon Macy here -- quite the stunner, no? I'll overlook the whole "posing on the daybed" thing, which has been done to death, just because I like her perky ears. Downsides are that she still lives with her parents (two words, potential sweetheart: Graduate. School.), but on the upside, I hear she's a cuddler. Wish me luck, Cupids!

isolationist

tastes like chicken

Although Erika had not been included in the recent minion culling, this morning she not only presented me with some disappointing database analysis reports, but also had the gall to arrive 27 seconds late for work. Tsk, tsk, Erika. The ensuing consumption will likely make yet more work for HR, but I can't deny that the nose, in particular, was delicious.

bitter, salty, sour, sweet

Reporters often ask me about my "favorite body part," most likely as some type of conversational gambit that allows them to swoon over my luxurious tail, fluffy ears, or doe-like eyes. Probably, my answer surprises those poor, simple-minded journalists, but for those who know me, it won't come as a shock. It's the tongue. Indeed, there's so much to recommend me physically (don't forget, ladies: I'm single!), but it's in being able to fit my whole tongue up someone's nose, or take advantage of their laughter to give them a "quick trip to France," as I say, that really sets me apart. And if I've just had a quick snack of sun-baked poo a la maison? All the better.

downsizing announcement

After weeks of going over the latest revenue figures, and many, many sleepless nights, I decided to slaughter my minions. It was a tough decision, and one I didn't come to lightly, believe me. Many had been my toadies and sycophants for years, and I'll miss seeing them at the annual picnic which has now also been modified, to focus solely on me and the slow-roasted barbecuing of the remaining minions. I'd wish the downsized luck in reaching for their dreams, but as you can tell, they've been eaten.

where it all began

Ah, the golden days when I was so small I could slip between the fenceposts. Those halcyon weeks of biting the shit out of everyone's hands and ankles, barking all night in that particularly high-pitched squeak, and running the vet bills up to nosebleed level. God, I miss those Hallmark moments. Doesn't this photo just capture the whole "please...please...just let me go" vibe?

part mountain goat?

Welcome to the Ambrose

You few, you lucky few...here is the storehouse of my imagination, my romps and delights, the dark moments of my poo eating addiction. All laid out for you, dear friends, as I navigate the stormy seas between sleepy contentment and deep irritation in the presence of so many stupid, stupid fellow dogs. Enjoy!