Tag: pets (page 1 of 9)

Awesome Advice Central: Monkey business

Dear Awesome Advice Central,

Why are my parents so cruel?  I’m only 10 but already I’ve decided they’ve thwarted me one time too many—it must be that they don’t want me to succeed in life, it’s the only reason that makes sense. Continue reading

Awesome Advice Central and the Kid-pocalypse

Dear Awesome Advice Central,

What a fine cucumber sandwich with mustard and sauerkraut I’ve got myself into today. Continue reading

Awesome Advice Central’s Dog Day Afternoon

Dear Awesome Advice Central,

I recently bought a very expensive golden retriever from an exclusive breeder in Sassafrinkle County, just west of here.


Studly the Wonder Dog

He’s a beautiful pup and we decided to call him Studly. It’s really the  perfect name for him, since we plan on hiring him out to breed.

We love him, we really do.  We feed him, dress him in adorable knitted outfits and pat him a lot.  It’s like we were meant to have a dog or something, we’re so good at taking care of him.

Anyway, the breeder told me that for Studly to please a female dog (can you believe they’re called “bitches”?  God.  I think that’s just, like, so sexist) we need to prepare him before the Big Date.

She says we need to give him a little help in the “romance department,” if you can believe it. I gave it a lot of thought, and then I did the only logical thing:  I gave him a shower, doused him in Extra-Heavy-Duty Axe (bitches like that, or so I hear), bought him some Barry White records, and as an added boost to his confidence, tossed him a breath mint.

It seemed to work.  Both he and Corky (the female dog with whom he shares his love moments) adore Barry and know just what to do as soon as they hear his familiar “oh yeah baby” on the CD player.

Corky is what we call “a satisfied customer” in our trade, and Studly is getting a great reputation.  We’re bringing in big bucks, let me tell you! The only problem is that whenever Studley sees a female dog (or cat, or raccoon, or Kardashian, he’s not choosy), he rushes over to our CD collection, finds Barry White’s ‘Best of…,” and brings it over to me to play it!

I think it’s really cute, but my husband says it’s creepy, especially because it happens a lot when my mother-in-law visits. Now there’s a bitch and a half, let me tell you!

Any ideas on how to control this?  Hubby says we should get rid of Barry White, while I say his mother should just stop visiting our house.  Who’s right, who’s wrong, and do you think there’s a reality show contract in this for us?

Debbie Ficus-Jones


Dear Debbie,

We must admit that the moment you mentioned Barry White, we started off on a wee reverie of our own…he really does seem to have that effect, doesn’t he? Mmm, mmm, baby….

One moment, while we clear our heads.

All right, now where were we? Right. Music for make dog have sexy time. Got it.

All right, dear, here’s what you need to do: you really need to broaden Studly’s horizons.

As any reputable sex therapist will tell you, monotony is a serious downer in the bedroom department, and while Barry is indeed  a nice entrée into the world of musical seduction, there are plenty of others out there who could turn Studly’s (and Corky’s, mustn’t forget the lady!) crank equally well.

We’re thinking Marvin Gaye—who could resist his crooning, “Let’s get it on….oh, yeah, let’s get it on….”? Not us, that’s for sure.

Then there’s Tom Jones. Though frankly, he might be more up Corky’s alley than Studly’s. Tom does have the amazing ability to separate women from their undergarments though, just saying. And who knows? Studly might appreciate the assistance.

If you want your pooch to develop a more cultured ear, try him out on some Prince. “Purple Rain” is sure to get him moving and grooving, if you get our drift.

And of course, for the suave and sophisticated dog about town, Miles Davis. In fact, “Bitches Brew” would seem to be tailor-made for the very situation you describe!

You might have to switch out Studly’s collection of sweaters for a smoking jacket and cravat, but that’s a good look for a golden retriever, we feel. Lends them an air of insouciance they badly need. They’re really rather earnest-looking dogs otherwise, aren’t they?

Oh, sometimes we simply stun ourselves with our own cleverness! Yes, yes, that’s the ticket. Change up the music, and give Studly the chance to expand his masculine horizons.

And now, we feel a little faint. Time to settle down with some Miles on the turntable, and reviving martinis in hand…farewell, and good luck!

Awesome Advice Central



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Awesome Advice Central goes a little buggy

Dear Awesome Advice Central,

Help! I’m so depressed I can barely drag myself out of my bed to write this letter.


I loved him, yeah, yeah, yeah….RIP, little Ringo!

You see, my pet beetle, Ringo (my fave, he was so dreamy and ca-yute!), got sick a few weeks ago.

He began displaying flu-like systems, and I worked around the clock to nurse him back to health, feeding him tidbits of teriyaki turkey and morsels of Mars bars, his favourite foods in the whole world. It was a slow recovery but we persevered together, and I thought he was getting better.

Night after night, I soaked his little feet in thimbles of hot water, put mustard presses on his wee little chest and blew his adorable little proboscis with aloe-infused tissues.

He seemed to be perking up and actually looked pretty chipper, when suddenly, he went kaputski and popped his tiny clogs last night while we were watching Oprah together.

I sprang immediately into action: I administered CPR and gave Ringo the Kiss of Life but he just would. Not. Wake. Up.

To say I am devastated would be an understatement. I am crying constantly, wringing my hands over Ringo’s fate; I keep remembering all the special moments we shared together, and wondering at the cruel fate that has separated us forever. I’m in such emotional pain, I spend most of my time in the fetal position.

Except when I’m writing long, heartfelt odes to my wee beetle on my Facebook page, that is.

To honour Ringo’s life, I put up a picture of him on Facebook, with a little black band to signify my deep mourning. And I’ve dedicated a poem to him, entitled “My Brave Little Beetle.”

I wrote it myself, while watching his 6 little legs twitch their death dance during the commercial break on Oprah:

My Brave little Ringo
Death has got you beat;
You’ll get to heaven quickly
Because you have 6 tiny feet.

I miss Ringo so much. To add to my emotional torment, I’m getting rude comments from evil so-called Facebook friends, who insist they never knew about Ringo, and cannot understand why I’m making such a fuss now. They act like I’m lying or something.

But seriously: I wouldn’t write a poem for an imaginary animal, would I? No, I would not.

Should I keep these friends or dump them? I feel like they’re not sympathetic to my loss, and I hate to think what they’ll say when my pet flea Fred finally hops along to his giant Sheepdog in the Sky.

To help me overcome my grief, I’m also thinking of writing condolence cards for those whose entomological offspring have gone over the Rainbow Bridge. Would you like to invest in this? You’d be coming in on the ground floor. I really think there’s a market for this, don’t you?

I remain, with utmost sincerity,

Campbell Firetong-Smythe

Dear Campbell,

Well. This is really a new one on us. We’re at a bit of a loss, in fact.

Because honestly, we cannot think of a single occasion on which someone’s Facebook friends have ever doubted the depth or sincerity of their grief following the loss of a beloved pet. It really does lead us to ask what kind of “friends” you have.

In our experience, Facebook friends are far more likely to pile on the sympathy whenever they suspect that a fellow-traveller might be in any sort of emotional distress.

Comments usually range from “so sorry for your loss” to “you’re such a strong fellow, we’re sure you’ll get through this, because God never gives us more than we can handle, and this is actually just His way of testing your devotion, so chin up, old chap, and keep a song in your heart, because when He slams a door in your face it’s usually because he’s about to pry open a sixth-story window and toss you out, but that’s just part of His grand plan for your life.” Or some such.

We suspect your unfeeling so-called friends must have a screw or three loose, if they’re not offering you this kind of useful condolence in your time of need. We say “ditch the lot and start over.”

As for your business proposition, we’re intrigued. Let us know once you’ve got a business plan in place, and we’ll have our respective lawyers do lunch, all right?

Oh, and our condolences re your beetle. Life’s a bitch.

Awesome Advice Central




Awesome Advice Central goes all the way to the top

Dear Awesome Advice Central,

Erm, this is like, soooooo embarrassing! Like, I’m totally devastated and schlamoozled right now, I could just DIE.

I work in middle management in a high-prestige office downtown (I can’t give you more detail, but trust me when I say, my office “trumps” all others in the vicinity).

My boss asked me to come in to meet her after lunch yesterday and I was all excited, thinking she’s going to give me my bonus. Everyone else has received theirs this year and surely it’s my turn now. After all, I was the one responsible for that $5 million project succeeding last year, right? If I hadn’t photocopied that prospectus as well as I did, who knows if we’d have sealed the deal, right?

The whole way in, I was nervous. I was thinking about how much I’d get, what I’d spend it on, how much champagne costs—my stomach was a-flutter with anxiety!

I knocked on her door and went in. There was my boss, sitting behind her desk, looking all smooth and polished and professional. She asked me to sit, which I did.

Then she started talking. I can’t remember what she said because suddenly, the flutters in my stomach gained strength and reminded me that I’d had a pork vindaloo for lunch only half an hour ago. My stomach was gurgling, expanding and contracting, and I realized all that spice was desperate to find a way out of me. One way or another, if you catch my meaning.

Under no circumstance could that happen, not in front of my boss!

I’m not the “run silent, run deep” type, I’m afraid. To my horror, I heard a high-pitched sound, like the sound a person who’s inhaled helium would make, coming from my middle regions.

alt="IMAGE-fart-advice"To cover it, I coughed. The cough seemed to loosen things up, to to speak and, well, to make a long story really short (kind of like my career, heh heh), I felt a sudden, blissful release. Too bad it sounded like the tuba section of a brass band, though.

My boss blinked at me. Twitched her nose. Looked upward. Thinking quickly, I said the first thing that came to mind:

“Was that you? P.U.!!!”

Looking back, I can see this wasn’t the best way to handle the situation.

Our faces flushed, mine from embarrassment, hers from I don’t know what; she got up and opened the door, probably for ventilation purposes.

I took that as my cue to leave, and beat a hasty retreat.

I’m so so so embarrassed. I need to find out if I got my bonus but I don’t dare ask for another meeting with my boss. I also happen to love spicy foods, so please tell me who I can blame the next time this sort of thing comes up? Or out. So to speak.

Pamma Lambda

Dear Pam,

Do you mind if we call you that? Because honestly, anything’s preferable to your real name.

One of our personal pithy mottoes (and we have too many to count, including “Don’t take any wooden plates,” “If your aunt had balls she’d be your uncle,” and “Don’t ask us, we just live here”) is this: “Never, under any circumstances, eat anything involving both pork and vindaloo. And if you must, for pity’s sake don’t do it in the middle of the work day.”

Well, you seem to have blown it on that one. Blown it, get it? Ah, we crack us up.


How much is that tiny fart-catcher in the window?

Ahem. All right, never mind. Here’s our advice: you need a dog.

Not just any dog, mind you. You need an accessory dog—one that’s tiny enough to fit into a handbag, so you can whisk it past those rude men at your building’s security desk.

Yes, yes, we know that these precious poochies aren’t as de rigueur as they were when dear Paris Hilton used to carry that tiny mutt…what was its name? Tinkerbelle? everywhere with her. Never mind. If you insist on eating foods that produce flatulence on the scale you describe, you simply must have a scapegoat on hand at all times, and a tiny dog fits the bill perfectly.

If anyone questions you, simply say that Paris grew tired of little Tinkermutt, and fobbed him off on you, and what could you do? As a close friend, you had no choice but to give…him? her? it? a new home…in your handbag. That oughta shut them up.

Now, you can ask your boss for another meeting, secure in the knowledge that if anything untoward should happen, you can just glare accusingly at your tiny furry sidekick.

Problem solved. Next?

Awesome Advice Central



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