Thursday, July 10, 2014





It’s a dog’s life at their house


August 24. 2013 3:46PM
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Every column topic I envisioned this month would be offensive to someone.



If I wrote about my daughter's dance recital again, the evil eyes of other parents would return during next year's event. My experiences in the Cincinnati Reds' all-you-can-eat section with my father-in-law would get me killed at the next family gathering. Babbling about my frustrations at the number of graduation parties would only get me in trouble at the first one I have to attend.



So I'm playing it safe. I'm letting our 2-year-old golden retriever, Amigo, write my column for me. This should answer the critics who say any old mutt could write this stuff.



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Woof! Bark! Grr!



I know. That's predictable. That's what you'd expect from a dog, what with my ability to chase my tail for minutes on end and patting my tail when you scratch my ears. But really, I'm an insightful pup.



Sure, I have my dog days (and afternoons). But for the most part, I have to admit the Trinkos are pretty good to me. They feed me well. They're not abusive or anything ... aside from the name.



My biggest gripe in life is being a 65-pound golden retriever with reddish hair named "Amigo."



When I hear them out yelling my name when I escape the wood fence and the electric fence, I see the neighbors looking around for a little Chihuahua. Then along I come, with my magnificent shiny coat and the energy of that Energizer bunny.



They've explained the name to enough people: They used to have a dog named Buddy who was, by all accounts, everyone's buddy. I lived with Buddy for almost a year. I liked Buddy, even if he thought I was an annoying puppy.



So when they got a second dog, the Trinkos thought it'd be cool to name their second dog Amigo. My name when I came from the litter was Frank, and now I'm Amigo. Ugh. I don't know what they'll call the next one. Comrade? Compadre? Pal? Paison? Please.



You might've noticed I mentioned escaping the wood fence and the electric fence. Their efforts to keep me confined into that quarter acre in the backyard are cute. They just don't seem to understand; a dog has to roam.



That area behind the house really confounds me. The first time I went out there, they made it clear it was my bathroom. It's great. I can find different spots in the yard to claim as my own.



So all winter long, this frozen tundra was mine. It's room to run around, chase a bird or two and dig a hole.



Now that it's nice outside, they keep sending those adorable kids out there to play. I'm learning how to share, even if those kids don't like digging holes.



It's that hole thing that seems to irritate them most. For some reason, they keep decorating my bathroom with new plants. They tried some flowers once. They even planted some tomatoes last year.



I loved the plants, particularly the way they tasted. And for some reason David yelled at me about that.



It's pretty confusing. If someone gives you a new decoration for a room in your home, you'd use it as you please. Right?



Now they've planted some kind of bush in the backyard, next to the door. It's really prickly. I don't know how I'm supposed to eat that.



I gave up on trying and started working on another hole. Then they filled that hole with another prickly plant. It's not fair. I'm not a digging machine, no matter what they call me.



So I'm going to stop digging, for now. I'll resume as soon as I think they'll stop finding those prickly plants.





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