Hello everybody, and thanks for following the Yoga Dog Blog.
We sent Rosie to her eternal rest on 7/13/18. She would have appreciated the irony of being put to sleep on Friday the 13th. But then, she found irony in everything. .
She was the dog of my life.
I haven’t posted here in many months, and only a couple of times in the past two years. The Yoga Dog Blog has run its course, and, of course, there can be no Yoga Dog Blog without the Yoga Dog.
Once again, thanks for following,
Mitch Coleman
(Scene: Santa’s Workshop, the North Pole. Santa is sitting at a computer, cursing. A glass holding two fingers of scotch sits at his elbow. An Elf stands nearby)
Santa: G–dammit! Whose idea was it to bring in these G–damned computers!
Elf: The Board thinks we need to move into the…late 20th…century. They authorized the purchase of Atari computers to try and streamline our organization.
Santa: Atari? Are you f—ing kidding me? You mean Commodores weren’t available?
Elf: Y
ou’re being sarcastic, aren’t you, sir?
Santa: Do you know how many iWatches I’m delivering this Christmas? Crimony, I’d take an IBM Selectric at this point.
Elf: We have to cut costs! We got the Ataris for a song. I can have one of the Smurfs take a look at it–
Santa: And that’s another thing! Since when do we have Smurfs in the workshop?!
Elf: Since we got that letter from the EEOC.
Santa: f&#%!
Elf: Blue lives matter.
Santa: Double f&#%!
Elf: Sucks to be you, sir.
Santa: (lowers his voice) By the way, I think I may have stepped on a Smurf on my way to the bathroom last night.
Elf: Again?!
Santa: Could you check and see if there’s a blue spot on the rug?
Elf: Now I have to change the sign!
Santa: What sign?
Elf: The sign out front that says, ‘THIS SHOP HAS GONE (11) DAYS WITHOUT STEPPING ON A SMURF’
Santa: Eleven days is pretty good! (looks at the computer screen) Where are my ‘Letters to Santa?’
Elf: (sighs) They’re in the file called ‘Letters to Santa.’ It’s pretty cryptic.
Santa: (throws a look at the elf, opens the file) Let’s see…here’s a letter from ‘Rosie.’
Elf: That’s the dog in Michigan. She writes us every year.
Santa: Yeah, yeah, I remember. What’s she after this year? (reads) ‘Dear Santa, thank you for getting Mitch married off.’ (to the Elf) Did we do that?
Elf: We’re out of the matchmaking business, remember? Her owner is the guy who sparked that whole ‘Match.com’ video business.
Santa: Aw, jeez. Cops get him for that?
Elf: How do I say this delicately? They couldn’t prove it was…him…in the video.
Santa: That’s real nice. (sips his scotch, resumes reading) ‘This year, I’d like to finally meet a nice dog, maybe partner up.’ (to the elf) We got any puppies we can deliver?
Elf: Two words, sir…Humane Society.
Santa: (resumes reading) ‘Barring that, I would just like a new toy, and maybe some treats in my stocking.’ (to the elf) Let’s make that happen. Easy one, eh?
Elf: I’ll notify Amazon.
Santa: Wait, what?
Elf: We’re supplementing your deliveries with Amazon. You didn’t think you were hitting the whole world, did you sir?
Santa: Well, I noticed the sleigh was a little lighter last year, but–
Elf: It’s 2015! What you can’t carry, Amazon can. It’s drone warfare.
Santa: (sighs) Pretty soon, there won’t be any need for me at all. I’ll be ‘out to pasture’ with the reindeer. How are the reindeer, by the way?
Elf: (tugs at his collar) Ah…they’re fine. They said to tell you ‘hi.’
Santa: You’re sweating.
Elf: Hot in here.
Santa: Think I’ll go make myself a sandwich in the kitchen. We got any meat in the fridge?
Elf: Ummm, ah, yes! Not reindeer!
Santa: Whatever. What’s your name again?
Elf: Burton, sir.
Santa: You know what, Burton?
Elf: What, sir?
Santa: (drains the scotch) It sucks to be me.
Elf: That it does, sir. That it does.
(Mitch is relaxing over a beer, in his living room, when Rosie staggers in from the kitchen, staring deeply at the ceiling)
Rosie: (to Mitch) Do you see the angels?
Mitch: (puts down his beer) Say what?
Rosie: Angels! Can’t you see them circling round the room?
Mitch: I can’t see anything circling the room.
Rosie: (shouting) How can you not see them? They’re–Oh! Oh! That one looks just like Fred Gwynne!
Mitch: (thinking) WTF?
Rosie: There’s o
ne on your shoulder! Don’t smash it!
Mitch: Why would I smash…wait a minute. (he looks into Rosie’s glazed eyes) Did you eat some of those mushrooms I left on the kitchen counter?
Rosie: I ate the whole bowl! They were fabulous!
Mitch: Aw, jeez. Those were special mushrooms! They’re…medicinal. They’re not for dogs!
Rosie: Watch what happens when I move my paws like this…(she waves her paws rapidly in front of her face). They leave contrails!
Mitch: Crap…I’d better call Dr. Labradoodle. He’ll know what to do. (dials his cell phone).
Rosie: I can’t feel my tail! I can’t feel my tail!
Dr. Labradoodle: (picks up) This is Dr. Benton Labradoodle.
Mitch: Doctor, it’s Mitch Coleman. Listen, Rosie got into some ‘medicinal’ mushrooms, and–
Dr. Labradoodle: And she’s tripping her butt off?
Dr. Benton Labradoodle is a world-renowned pet therapist. He’s also a pet.
Mitch: And she’s tripping her butt off. What should I do?
Dr. Labradoodle: Remind her that she is a child of the universe–that no less than the trees and the stars, she has a right to–
Mitch: Okay, stop, stop! She’s not having a bad trip, she’s just…annoying.
Dr. Labradoodle: Oh! Why didn’t you say so? In that case, hit her over the head with a book.
Mitch: (spits his beer)
Dr. Labradoodle: I know that sounds harsh, but the shock will do her a world of good. Trust me. This is sound medical advice.
Mitch: (wiping beer from his shirt front and muttering) …sound medical advice, my butt.
Dr. Labradoodle: Do you OWN a book?
Mitch: Yes I own a book!!
Rosie: (singing) I can’t get next to you, babe, I can’t get next to you…!
Mitch: (to Dr. Labradoodle) Oh, crap, she’s singing. Hold on, I’m getting a book!
Dr. Labradoodle: A Bible is recommended.
Mitch: Do you remember who you’re talking to?
Dr. Labradoodle: Oh! Right. Maybe a hardbound copy of the Playboy ’50th Anniversary issue?’
Rosie: Chic a boom, chic a boom…chica boom, boom–
SFX: Boom!
Rosie: OW! What’d you do that for?
Mitch: Doctor’s orders. Snap out of it!
Rosie: You can’t bring someone out of a drug induced euphoria by whacking them over the head with a…what the hell is that? A hardbound copy of–
Mitch: Never mind what it is! My blog, my rules. Welcome back.
Rosie: (rubbing her head) Okay, that really hurt.
Mitch: You can owe me one.
Rosie: Payback’s a–
Mitch: Stop yourself!
Rosie: How old am I?
Mitch: Old as hell.
Rosie: Excuse me?
Mitch: 13, 14–in ‘dog years,’ you’re at death’s door.
Rosie: Thank you for that thoughtful, compassionate response.
Mitch: Don’t ask the question, if you don’t want the answer.
Rosie: Nice. Do me a favor. Don’t ever be a hospice volunteer.
Mitch: I WAS a hospice volunteer.
Rosie: Oh my God. Who f—-ed up?
Mitch: Nobody f—-ed up! I volunteered, and they took me. I got some training and then I sat with the dying. Did it for about a year.
Rosie: That must have been unutterably tragic.
Mitch: I got used to it.
Rosie: I meant, for the dying.
Mitch: Hey! I’m a compassionate person! I listen, I feel…
Rosie: Really? Let’s have a little test. I’ll be the hospice patient, and you sit with me and offer me compassion and…feeling. Or whatever.
Mitch: Okay, shoot.
Rosie: (faintly) It looks like I’ll be seeing my parents again, real soon.
Mitch: Yeah? What, are they coming to visit?
Rosie: They’re dead, you idiot! I’m dying, and I’m going to go and join them!
Mitch: Sorry! Sorry, forgot what I was doing there for a second. Okay, go ahead. You’re the patient.
Rosie: (sigh) My only regret is that I spent too much time at work, and not enough time with my family. Now it’s too late…
Mitch: (takes her paw) Wow…that must really feel like crap.
Rosie: Excuse me?
Mitch: To know that you lived your life so selfishly.
Rosie: I think I want the nurse…
Mitch: Now, take me, for example. I spend LOTS of time with my family. Not my BIRTH family, mind you, but my family of choice. Know why? Because I don’t want to wind up on my deathbed bitching and moaning about not–OW!
Rosie: That was a warning nip.
Mitch: I’m bleeding!
Rosie: That’s not possible. You’re bloodless.
Mitch: (rubbing the bite mark) Give me a break! I haven’t done this in 10 years. I’ve gotten a little rusty.
Rosie: Rusty? I’ve heard more compassion from Dick Cheney.
Mitch: Okay, that was low. Give me one more chance.
Rosie: Okay, last chance. (faint) I see a light…it’s beckoning me onwards…
Mitch: That was me, I left the light on in the bathroom. I’m sorry, are we still doing this?
Rosie: No, no we’re not.
Mitch: Oh, c’mon! I’m ready now!
Rosie: (muttering) And they just let him walk around loose…
##
Mitch: Lori and I are going to take ballroom dance classes this winter.
Rosie: You’re dead to me.
Mitch: Oh, c’mon! I already know a little fox trot ‘box step.’ Watch me…(he dances)
Rosie: Keep that up, and I won’t need to eat grass.
Mitch: You’re just jealous that–
Rosie: You want to see dancing? Watch this! (singing, dancing) Now watch me whip, now watch me nae nae. Now watch me whip, now watch me nae nae–
Mitch: Jeez! Where did you learn that?
Rosie: It’s a video by ‘Silento.’ Everybody’s doing it. Well they were, back when it was a ‘viral sensation.’
Mitch: When was that?
Rosie: About two hours ago. It’s over, now that middle-aged white people are doing it.
Mitch: Can you teach me to move like that?
Rosie: You? No! Normal people can go to this link for the original video by Silento:
Mitch: I’m not going to a link! C’mon, let’s do this.
Rosie: (sigh) What the hell. Okay, you ready? Here we go.
(To see Mitch Whip and Nae Nae, under Rosie’s watchful gaze, go to this link:)
(Mitch and Rosie together)
Now watch me whip, (Kill it!)
Now watch me nae nae. (Okay!)
watch me whip, (Kill it!)
watch me nae nae. (Okay!)
Oooh, watch me, watch me!
Oooh, watch me, watch me!
Mitch: (stops dancing) Okay, are these the real lyrics, or are you just–
Rosie: These are the lyrics! Just get with it!
Mitch: It’s not exactly Lennon/McCartney is what I’m sayin.’
Rosie: And this ain’t exactly 1965. Now get movin’.
(Mitch and Rosie together) Do the ‘stanky leg’, do the ‘stanky leg’
Mitch: Wait a minute, What’s the ‘stanky leg?’
Rosie: If I have to explain it–
Mitch: Okay, stanky leg, here we go…
(Mitch and Rosie together) Do the ‘stanky leg’, do the ‘stanky leg’
Mitch: Okay, I think I got it.
Rosie: (sigh) You so don’t got it.
Mitch: How about if I just fox trot?
Rosie: Fine. But could you work the stanky leg into it?
Mitch: Like this? (Fox trots with the ‘stanky leg’)
Rosie: (rolls her eyes) Yeah! Just like that!
Mitch: I think Lori’s going to like this!
Rosie: Oh, I can’t wait to hear what she says about it.
Mitch: (singing, dancing) Do the stanky leg, do the stanky leg…
##
Rosie: What do you think of my Halloween costume?
Mitch: What costume?
Rosie: Look at me! Can’t you tell what I’m supposed to be?
Mitch: You’re not wearing a costume.
Rosie: Yes I am, I’m going as a dog. Look at the paws, the fur–
Mitch: That’s not a costume! You’re already a dog! That’s like me saying I’m going as a person.
Rosie: The way you dress? A homeless person, maybe.
Mitch: Could you be a little more sensitive toward the homeless?
Rosie: Why? What are they gonna do, not invite me to their house?
Mitch: It’s Halloween. You have to disguise yourself!
(he puts a ski mask on her) Much better!
Rosie: I suppose you have one of these for yourself?
Mitch: Now look, the ski mask is a great start. We just need to get you some prison garb. Wait a minute! Weren’t you a prison ‘therapy dog’ before I knew you? Didn’t they make you wear prison clothes for that?
Rosie: That’s a period of my life I don’t like to talk about.
Mitch: Right.
Rosie: People hear that, they make all kinds of assumptions.
Mitch: If we can just find–
Rosie: I was ‘gay for the stay’ alright? But that’s not who I am!
Mitch: Are you done?
Rosie: Yes. I just wanted to say, ‘gay for the stay.’
Mitch: And you did. Proud of yourself?
Rosie: I’m ready to move on.
Mitch: We need something in a wide, black-and-white horizontal stripe.
Rosie: Wide Stripes? With my hips? Not bloody likely.
Mitch: Oh! I know! You could go as one of the ‘Beagle Boys.’
Rosie: And they are…?
Mitch: They’re a notorious criminal gang from the ‘Scrooge McDuck’ comics.
Rosie: In 1951, of course. Could you reach even further back into history?
Mitch: We’ll have to find you a hat, and give you a prison number.
Rosie: 871276.
Mitch: Excuse me?
Rosie: Nothing.
Mitch: This’ll be great. But make sure you bring all the candy home! Remember, chocolate is bad for dogs.
Rosie: And you’ll be going with me?
Mitch: I’ll be staying home and waiting for you.
Rosie: Great. And I promise not to lick all the candy before I bring it home.
Mitch: On second thought…
Rosie: Here, put on this ski mask.
##
(Rosie and I have set out on a road trip. Unfortunately, in my haste, I have crashed into a tree while backing out of the driveway. The car is a smoking hulk.)
Rosie: Are you ****ing kidding me?
Mitch: I’m really sorry.
Rosie: That’s it! Road Trip’s over! And it lasted all of four seconds.
Mitch: When I get behind the wheel, I sort of turn into Parnelli Jones.
Rosie: PARNELLI JONES?! Who the hell is Parnelli Jones?
Mitch: He was my favorite race car driver from childhood.
Rosie: At your age, I would have thought that was ‘Ben Hur.’
Mitch: Oh, now that’s real nice.
Rosie: Why don’t you try driving like Matt Kenseth? Or Kurt Busch? Or Tony Stewart?
Mitch: I think Tony Stewart ran over a guy.
Rosie: Point taken. Nevertheless–
Mitch: Why don’t we just sit here, and enjoy the scenery?
Rosie: Scenery? At the end of the driveway? Oh, sure. Hey, look, it’s our next-door-neighbor, Kenny, mowing his lawn. Boy, you don’t see that every day!
Mitch: Stop yourself. Hand me that bag of pork rinds.
Rosie: Sure, what the hell.
(they sit, silently eating pork rinds)
Rosie: Road Trip my butt.
Mitch: Take it easy. Let’s open the donuts.
Rosie: Hey, since we’re not driving anywhere, I guess it’s okay to pour a beer.
Mitch: Now you’re getting in the spirit! Hand me one of those glasses.
(they sit, dipping their powdered donuts in beer)
Rosie: You know, one of my previous owners was a race car driver.
Mitch: Really?
Rosie: Oh, yeah. He drove midgets.
Mitch: They prefer to be called ‘little people.’
Rosie: Midget race cars, you idiot! It’s a whole category of racing!
Mitch: I guess I don’t know much about–
Rosie: You don’t know **** about **** could we just agree on that?
Mitch: You are really harsh today.
Rosie: The car’s wrecked…trip’s over…now what’ll we do with all these pork rinds?
Mitch: I’ll have Kenny push us back into the driveway. We’ll pay him with pork rinds.
Rosie: The barter economy…
Mitch: Here comes the UPS truck.
(they both wave, the driver waves back)
Rosie: Next road trip, I’m driving.
Mitch: Sure. Hand me a donut. ##
Rosie: (turning in front of a mirror) Do you think I’m gaining weight?
Mitch: (thinking) “Danger, Will Robinson!” Ahh…no…I think what’s happening, is that your…spots…are getting smaller.
Rosie: Really? You don’t think my butt is getting–
Mitch: No! No
, no, no it’s not your butt, it’s your spots. They’re shrinking, thus making your butt appear larger in comparison.
Rosie: You think I’m an idiot, don’t you?
Mitch: (thinking) “This is a freaking minefield” No, I have great respect for your intelligence.
Rosie: How could my spots be shrinking?
Mitch: I can’t describe the mechanics of it, I only know–
Rosie: Your liver spots aren’t shrinking!
Mitch: (sigh)
Rosie: And what is the deal with your weight? You’ve lost…eight pounds?…in the last month. Talk about shrinking…
Mitch: I’m very active, and I don’t eat mu–
Rosie: Active? It’s like you’ve got this crazy gerbil in a treadmill cage inside of you.
Mitch: Ahhh…could we–
Rosie: And it’s just running, and running and–
Mitch: Could we not go the gerbil route?
Rosie: What have you got against gerbils?
Mitch: People have a…complicated history with gerbils, is what I’m saying.
Rosie: Fine. But you never slow down. I’m afraid it’s taking a toll on you.
Mitch: It’s not taking a toll!
Rosie: Have you looked in a mirror lately? Oh, that’s right, you live in front of a mirror. If I had a dollar for every time you’ve done your ‘strongman’ act in the bathroom.
Mitch: (thinking) “I gotta start closing that door.”
Rosie: I have an idea. Let’s get away!
Mitch: Get away, how?
Rosie: Just get away! Slip the leash! Go under the fence!
Mitch: I can’t just take off! I’ve got people depending on me.
Rosie: So get a sub! Erin, Carolyn, Marcia–
Mitch: It’s not the same! When I’m not leading, there’s an ineffable element missing from the class.
Rosie: Yeah, it’s called ‘bull—-‘ and absolutely no one misses it.
Mitch: (thinking) “She’s getting old. It can’t be that much longer.”
Rosie: Commit! Do it! Let’s get in the car, and just drive! Our heads out the window, wind in our hair, our ears flapping in the slipstream–
MItch: Hmmm…you do paint a vivid picture.
(Next: ‘Road Trip)
To be continued–
(Setting: A rusted-out Winnebago–)
Madam Rosa: It’s an Airstream!
(Airstream my butt! –parked in a vacant lot adjoining the ‘Sunnyside Siesta’ trailer park for seniors. Madam Rosa is inside, sleeping on a torn, stained couch cushion on the floor. She is fitful, tossing. Suddenly, she awakens with a start, and bolts up.)
Madam Rosa: WE’RE OUT OF VERMOUTH!
(wide-eyed, she looks around the shabby room, gets her bearings)
Madam Rosa: Aw, hell.
(She shakes, grooms herself, then goes to the mirror and puts on her keffiyeh. There is a knock at the door. Madam Rosa opens it to reveal Rosie.)
Rosie: Madam Rosa! I’m at a crossroads. I need you to see into the future. Can I get a reading?
Madam Rosa: Yes! Of Course! Give me a moment to prepare my salon! (She turns and kicks an empty vodka bottle into the bathroom) Come in!
(Madam Rosa settles onto her cushion, and sets a crystal ball on the floor at her feet)
Madam Rosa: Now, how can Madam Rosa be of service?
Rosie: Madam Rosa, why can’t I meet a good dog? The working breeds are a little too ‘blue collar’ and the ‘show dogs’ are all ‘show’ and no ‘go’, if you know what I mean.
Madam Rosa: Lotta gay show dogs…
Rosie: Then when I think I’ve got a good prospect on the line, it turns out to be ‘Snog, Flog, thank you dog,’ and it’s over before I can wag my tail!
Madam Rosa: Been there, girlfriend. I once dated a Great Dane who turned out to be neither.
Rosie: And now I’m dating a Seeing Eye Dog who can’t find my G spot with both paws!
Madam Rosa: Don’t get me started…
Rosie: Please, Madam Rosa, can you–
Madam Rosa: Silence! The spirits are calling!
Rosie: From the ‘other side?’
Madam Rosa: No, from the pantry. I need a vodka tonic. You?
Rosie: Straight up.
(two hours, and a bottle of Grey Goose later)
Rosie: …and Mitch says, “Why don’t you take an obedience class? That’s where Sally met her last partner.”
Madam Rosa: (mimicking Mitch) “Why don’t you take a class?” Man, I hate that crap.
Rosie: It’s the closest I’ve ever come to killing him.
Madam Rosa: (lifts her glass) Here’s to one day regaining our rightful place at the top of the food chain!
Rosie: ‘Next year, in Jerusalem!’
(They clink, and lap the last of the vodka from their glasses)
Madam Rosa: (checks the time) Aw, jeez, we’ve gone way over our time.
Rosie: I forgot we were even in session!
Madam Rosa: The clock never forgets. That’s $40.
Rosie: Crap, all I have is a hundred.
Madam Rosa: Madam Rosa can break it. Girl, you don’t work. Where do you get your money?
Rosie: I sneak it from Mitch’s wallet.
Madam Rosa: Of course you do.
(Sally and Rosie are hanging around Mitch’s office, shooting the breeze)
Sally: So…Lori and I have been living here for over a year now, and I still can’t figure out what it is that Mitch does. I mean, he doesn’t seem to DO anything.
Rosie: As far as I can tell, he spends a couple hours a day, capering in tights down at the studio, while people mimic his every move.
Sally: That’s a thing?
Rosie: Apparently, that’s a thing.
Sally: Wow. People…what can you say?
Rosie: Between that, and visits to his therapist, he’s out of the house about 16 hours a week.
Sally: He sees a therapist?
Rosie: Oh, yeah. He’s got some dark, dark, s**t going on.
Sally: Is he crazy?
Rosie: Maybe. Although lately he’s done a better job of keeping it together. Apparently, he’s working out some issues around his father.
Sally: Geez. ‘Paging Dr. Floyd,’ huh?
Rosie: Excuse me?
Sally: Paging Dr. Floyd. Isn’t that what you say when someone needs therapy?
Rosie: (rising up) Dr. Floyd? Paging Dr. FLOYD?
Sally: Did I not–
Rosie: You mean, the ‘Father of Psychoanalysis’ Dr. Sigmund Floyd?
Sally: Ah–
Rosie: The man who lent his name to ‘The Floydian Slip?’ THAT Sigmund Floyd?
Sally: I think you’re making fun of me.
Rosie: Look, girl, this is a tough house. You gotta be on your toes. Between Mitch and me, we’ve got a high school diploma, a college degree, and 500 hours of yoga training.
Sally: I think that’s mostly Mitch.
Rosie: When you start spouting pseudo-psychoanalytical babble, you better be able to walk the talk.
Sally: I’m just sayin’–
Rosie: And I’m just sayin’ you can’t get by in this house on looks alone. It takes brains, girlfriend. A canny kind of canine cunning.
Sally: Please don’t say that three times, fast.
Rosie: Look at Mitch. Sure, back in the day, he was rocking the mullet and the acid-washed jeans. But look at him now. His looks are gone, his hair is going, and the only ‘acid’ in his life is over-produced in his stomach.
Sally: That’s a little harsh, don’t you th–
Rosie: But he’s still got a little something going on upstairs. Not enough to be dangerous–
Sally: He always remembers to feed me.
Rosie: –but enough to turn his face toward the sunlight.
Sally: I didn’t mean to suggest–
Rosie: And by the way, it’s ‘Freud.’ Not Floyd.
Sally: Excuse me?
Rosie: I said it’s Freud!
Sally: Ahhh…I…think you might be pronouncing it wrong.
Rosie: (low growl)
Sally: Okay. ‘Frood’, it is.
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