The World is a Comedy to Those that Think,…
…a tragedy to those who feel.*
Which is, of course, why Bill Clinton was such a tragedy as President.
Through the American Flag League I ran across Sneakeasy Joint's link to this old post at Setting the World to Rights about whether or not animals can think--and do they think about thinkin'. Since the subjects of the study were monkeys and dolphins--and we all know what monkeys think about humans--so I'm not sure their conclusions are accurate.
But just in case anyone cares, I can give ya' a definite yes, animals do think. In fact, we go beyond thinkin' into plannin' and--don't think I'm lettin' out any secrets here--schemin'.
Sure there are some of us whose thinkin' never goes beyond food, food, food, walk, food food, nap, food, CAT!, food, food, food… Then there are the artistes. Like me. 'Course I didn't become an artiste overnight, ya' understand. It took watchin' Dad, learnin' about timin', and lots of rememberin' AHM has eyes in the back of her head.
And I'm pretty sure I can say I pulled off one of the finest schemin' feats in caninedom.
Now if I was a liberal I'd probably try to blame it all on Dad who taught me everythin' I know. Since I'm a conservative, I'll admit it was all my idea 'cause I wanted to do him one better. See Dad was addicted to Life Savers®, Certs®, Breath Savers®--all those minty things that come in shiny foil rolls. He would fish around in AHM's purse, find an open roll and take one mint. He was a true artiste. It took me forever to master that trick. Generally I would lose focus entirely, scarf down the whole roll, and poop green for two days.
Then came the day Silly Human Female (who loves to fancy herself a dog person--ha!--I pee on your foot!) arrived for a visit. She had been to one of those Christmas lunch/party type thingys humans who work together have, and her gift from whichever Santa showed up was a small box of cookie-rolled-in-chocolate-and-crushed-nuts sticks. Yeah, sticks. I saw 'em. There were a half-dozen in a little box with a clear plastic lid just sittin' there in her purse. She musta' taken the top off to give 'em a good sniff 'cause the top wasn't taped or tied or anything.
And I wanted one.
Continued in Read the Rest!
This would take some serious thinkin' and plannin'--and schemin'. I went right to work, studyin' things from all angles.
When Silly Human Female left her open purse sittin' on the floor by the sofa and went into the kitchen to talk to AHM I saw my chance. I had to move fast but I didn't want AHM or SHF to know what I'd done until I could actually eat my trophy. What to do, what to do… Think…plan…scheme…
The pile of rolled rawhide chew sticks AHM always kept in one of Dad's trophy bowls caught my eye. Ah ha! They were the same size. Better yet, they were the same color.
Out came the box very carefully--couldn't leave teeth marks, ya' know. I moved the top just enough to grab one cookie-chocolate-nut Holy Grail treasure, put in the chew stick, pushed down the plastic lid, and got it back in the purse in record time. Indiana Jones couldn't have done better--and I didn't end up havin' some barkin' huge fat rock rollin' down a tunnel after me. (Well, that could have happened, but SHF never saw me.)
Off I went to enjoy my prize away from the rest of the moochin' pack and was done by the time SHF was ready to leave. Wouldn't ya' know she picked up the box.
Uh oh. No. Wait. She was just movin' it around to get her keys. Good.
Then she looked at it. And looked closer. Aaarrrrggghhhhh. Much outrage from SHF. Much denyin'--and choked off laughin' from AHM. But the proof was there--five nut-covered chocolate cookie sticks and one rawhide chew. We all played it cool. (Prove it, lady!) She couldn't. 'Course we couldn't deny our part--er--my part--what with the evidence bein' right there in the box and all.
In the end SHF took off and I thought I was home free. I had pulled off the thinkin', plannin', schemin', sneakiest feat in dog history! Gimme that Oscar, pal.
I got cocky. Climbed right up on the sofa next to AHM, feelin' all superior, when I shoulda' stayed on the floor lickin' my chops a little more completely. Dog-slobber-melted chocolate is sticky and those little nut pieces get tangled real easy in dog fur. (sigh)
Oh yeah--I know chocolate's bad for dogs. Guess there wasn't enough in one of those dinky little sticks to hurt 'cause nothin' ever happened to me.
And AHM never told.
*Horace Walpole in a 1770 letter to Sir Horace Mann
posted by Harrison at 12:10 PM
Which is, of course, why Bill Clinton was such a tragedy as President.
Through the American Flag League I ran across Sneakeasy Joint's link to this old post at Setting the World to Rights about whether or not animals can think--and do they think about thinkin'. Since the subjects of the study were monkeys and dolphins--and we all know what monkeys think about humans--so I'm not sure their conclusions are accurate.
But just in case anyone cares, I can give ya' a definite yes, animals do think. In fact, we go beyond thinkin' into plannin' and--don't think I'm lettin' out any secrets here--schemin'.
Sure there are some of us whose thinkin' never goes beyond food, food, food, walk, food food, nap, food, CAT!, food, food, food… Then there are the artistes. Like me. 'Course I didn't become an artiste overnight, ya' understand. It took watchin' Dad, learnin' about timin', and lots of rememberin' AHM has eyes in the back of her head.
And I'm pretty sure I can say I pulled off one of the finest schemin' feats in caninedom.
Now if I was a liberal I'd probably try to blame it all on Dad who taught me everythin' I know. Since I'm a conservative, I'll admit it was all my idea 'cause I wanted to do him one better. See Dad was addicted to Life Savers®, Certs®, Breath Savers®--all those minty things that come in shiny foil rolls. He would fish around in AHM's purse, find an open roll and take one mint. He was a true artiste. It took me forever to master that trick. Generally I would lose focus entirely, scarf down the whole roll, and poop green for two days.
Then came the day Silly Human Female (who loves to fancy herself a dog person--ha!--I pee on your foot!) arrived for a visit. She had been to one of those Christmas lunch/party type thingys humans who work together have, and her gift from whichever Santa showed up was a small box of cookie-rolled-in-chocolate-and-crushed-nuts sticks. Yeah, sticks. I saw 'em. There were a half-dozen in a little box with a clear plastic lid just sittin' there in her purse. She musta' taken the top off to give 'em a good sniff 'cause the top wasn't taped or tied or anything.
And I wanted one.
Continued in Read the Rest!
This would take some serious thinkin' and plannin'--and schemin'. I went right to work, studyin' things from all angles.
When Silly Human Female left her open purse sittin' on the floor by the sofa and went into the kitchen to talk to AHM I saw my chance. I had to move fast but I didn't want AHM or SHF to know what I'd done until I could actually eat my trophy. What to do, what to do… Think…plan…scheme…
The pile of rolled rawhide chew sticks AHM always kept in one of Dad's trophy bowls caught my eye. Ah ha! They were the same size. Better yet, they were the same color.
Out came the box very carefully--couldn't leave teeth marks, ya' know. I moved the top just enough to grab one cookie-chocolate-nut Holy Grail treasure, put in the chew stick, pushed down the plastic lid, and got it back in the purse in record time. Indiana Jones couldn't have done better--and I didn't end up havin' some barkin' huge fat rock rollin' down a tunnel after me. (Well, that could have happened, but SHF never saw me.)
Off I went to enjoy my prize away from the rest of the moochin' pack and was done by the time SHF was ready to leave. Wouldn't ya' know she picked up the box.
Uh oh. No. Wait. She was just movin' it around to get her keys. Good.
Then she looked at it. And looked closer. Aaarrrrggghhhhh. Much outrage from SHF. Much denyin'--and choked off laughin' from AHM. But the proof was there--five nut-covered chocolate cookie sticks and one rawhide chew. We all played it cool. (Prove it, lady!) She couldn't. 'Course we couldn't deny our part--er--my part--what with the evidence bein' right there in the box and all.
In the end SHF took off and I thought I was home free. I had pulled off the thinkin', plannin', schemin', sneakiest feat in dog history! Gimme that Oscar, pal.
I got cocky. Climbed right up on the sofa next to AHM, feelin' all superior, when I shoulda' stayed on the floor lickin' my chops a little more completely. Dog-slobber-melted chocolate is sticky and those little nut pieces get tangled real easy in dog fur. (sigh)
Oh yeah--I know chocolate's bad for dogs. Guess there wasn't enough in one of those dinky little sticks to hurt 'cause nothin' ever happened to me.
And AHM never told.
*Horace Walpole in a 1770 letter to Sir Horace Mann
posted by Harrison at 12:10 PM
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