A Monday of Zonked Dogs and Outraged Citizens: Good Times, Bro…Good Times


Okay, the dog still has a cruel series of staples running along half of his right back leg (not visible in photo above), but this Tramadol is quite a drug. We’re supposed to be using “extreme confinement” as our Golden recovers from knee surgery, but with Tramadol prescribed “extreme confinement” means watching the dog sleep even more than the 14 hours a day he usually does.

A bit of wiki research informs me that Tramadol was part of the overdose cocktail that killed rapper “Ol’ Dirty Bastard”. You have time for this kind of research when your job is nursing a dog that sleeps 20 hours a day.

Meanwhile, I was getting all excited about tonight’s City Council meeting, what with the scintillating possibility of discussion about red light cameras and closing city golf courses, but according to the Journal promo neither of those measures might be finalized tonight.

Pity. I was looking forward to lovingly petting my dog’s surgery staples while watching verklempt golf nuts and other bad drivers go all apoplectic as they plea for cheaper golf and traffic violating.

In matters of full disclosure, let it be known that I occasionally go golfing with some buddies, and played at Puerto del Sol only two weeks ago. Yes, we thought it was too expensive ($15.25 for nine measly holes, if I recall correctly, not to mention $4 for a Heineken from the traveling beer cart), but I’ve always felt about golf the way some men feel about putting on women’s clothes. It’s just not me.

For years now I’ve gone, in increasingly rarer instances, just to spend time talking with some guys I don’t see that often. We could be sitting in a bar (or shopping at the Mall, I suppose) and it would be the same thing, but golf offers the illusion of physical activity without the deleterious health effects of sitting at a bar.

Frankly, I’m hoping the price of golfing goes up to the point where my friends will decide social encounters are better suited to a hiking trail instead of a municipal course. Hell, make it $100 per nine. Make it more than it currently costs to run a red light at a red light camera intersection.

Other people, men most of them, feel differently. Golf is a big deal to the guys, and I’m looking forward to them spitting with rage about raising the price of their game. And lead-footed drivers screaming about red light cameras, too? Misplaced Testosterone Jackpot!

Most prefer watching alleged “reality shows” like “Top Chef”, but I dig the ultra-real world of televised City Council meetings. My Tramadolized dog and I are really hoping for some great red-faced with rage diatribes tonight. Oh, the travesty of it all! The unfairness! Stalin would be proud! Hitler! Worse than Hitler!

Okay the dog doesn’t really care…he’s sleeping all night. But I’ll be tenderly stroking his staples and stubby regrowing leg hair while watching it, watching and laughing.

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