Friday, January 24, 2003

Guest Correspondent: Bitey the Dog Recently I put out the call for non-human guest correspondents. Soon I recieved a submission from the venerable Bitey the Dog, life-partner of Mark Hoback the Human over at a weblog called Fried Green Al Quaedas. When Bitey isn't up to his usual mischief, he spends his time mixing with unsavory characters like Donald Rumsfeld. I Carry a Bone By Bitey the Wiener Dog I look as bad as I feel this morning, and I feel long. I don’t need a mirror to confirm this brutal truth. Hell, I’m a wiener dog, it goes with the territory. I’m having a bad fur day and I can feel the bloodshot in my eyes. Too many cigarettes – I know I have dog breath. And yeah, I see the lurking shadow through my opaque office window before I hear the knock. I need a little hair of the cat. I lap up a couple of shots of bourbon before pushing the bowl back under my desk. Clears my little head.   My name is Bitey Rodan. I carry a bone     This particular gent goes by the name of Rumsfeld, and he’s got a bit of that maniacal look in his eye, the kind that sends out a warning. “Call me Rummy,” he says. I got no problem with that. As long as we’re on his dime, I’ll call him anything he wants. Anything except Master.   “Recognize this character?” he asks, sliding a glossy over the top of the car wreck that serves as my desk. The photo catches me by surprise. It’s that sleazy weasel Bin Laden. Didn’t expect to see his face again, not after our little melee at Tora Bora. Dirty business, that one.   “So what if I do,” I ask Rummy. “Me and a million other wiener dogs have that particular honor.”   “Maybe something. Maybe nothing.” He tosses me his pack. Chesterfields. Didn’t know they still made those. “I hear you’re pretty good at getting into holes.”   He’s done his research. I can burrow with the best of them. Hell, I was bred for it. No reason to show my hand early, though. “I do okay,” I tell him. “What’s up with Osama? I thought you weren’t looking for him anymore.”   Suddenly Rummy reached out and began to scratch my belly. I tried to keep control of myself, but before I knew it my tail was wagging uncontrollably. Hell, I can’t help it. I may be tough, but I’m still a wiener… Yeah, I know, you’ve heard it all before. “That’s what we want him to think,” he tells me. “That’s been our plan all along. Ignore him for a year or so, scrap it up with Iraq, he’s gonna think we’re preoccupied… that’s when he slips up… listen Bitey, you’ve got an opportunity to do your country a big favor. You can sniff him out.”   “Don’t try that duty bit on me, Rummy. That’s for humans. A dog’s got no country. Yeah, I can sniff him out, but bottom line: what’s in it for me?”   What’s the use in talking? He had me eating the Slim Jim right out of his hands. I felt a trip to Pakistan coming on strong.   “Eighty bucks a day,” he says. “And all you can eat.”   I did have a craving for Chicken Jalferazy with Nan.    8:26:44 PM