When I Stop To Think: The Animal Kingdom

Quite often I take a much needed break from my busy day and I think. It seems like the thoughts I have go in cycles and these days I cannot stop thinking about the animal kingdom. After an initial period of questioning myself and being full of self-doubt, I have given in to being consumed with animals big and small. I like to sit back and imagine what is going through the minds of the animals of the Earth and, if time permits, what is going on in other areas of their bodies as well.

I think about whales, the largest animal on our planet, swimming around dominating the oceans and the seas and swimming aimlessly eating fish, coming up with new, fun parlour tricks utilizing their blowholes and spending much of their existence as lonely as can be as all other marine life are quite intimidated and imagine that they are very unapproachable. I'm sure there are some whales that are unapproachable, but I do feel badly for the friendly whales, the kind whales, the whales that enjoy a nice evening out with some friends enjoying a plate of nachos or sitting by the fire sipping hot cocoa. I feel badly for those whales and imagine they are saying "we aren't all just large collections of blubber, some of us have feelings including a sense of humour as well as having blubber to spare."

I think about the elephant in the middle of Africa who secretly wants to either use his ivory tusks to make knick knacks for tourists with no conscience or keys for a new grand piano. Not that he doesn't love his tusks and all tusk-related activities, but he's had his eye on a new watch for a while now. I can imagine him making up a long, convoluted story for the other elephants regarding where his tusks went and how he ended up with a fancy watch.

I think about the lone monkey who is lying in the peaceful shade of a large tree, away from the hustle and bustle of the jungle and being soothed by the lovely sounds of nature. and, unfortunately dealing with the horrible side effects of way too much potassium and, to top it all off, has stinging cuts on his hands from way too much vine swinging. As he lies there clutching his stomach, I can just hear him mumbling "I swear this is the last time I eat one too many bananas. I know I've said this before, but this time I mean it."

I think about the bunny who is fighting his genetic urges and unwanted advances from all of the handsome male bunnies who are always giving her the eye, as all she wants to do is practice abstinence and also to hop, because hopping is pretty great.

I think about the soft-spoken, shy lion who doesn't want to come across too strongly, or step on anyone else's toes and prefers to speak gently and calmly then roaring which not only draws unnecessary attention but also yields many a sore throat. Plus, all of the other lions already roar and this particular lion is striving to be unique.

I think about the gnat and aside from the spelling, I realize how little I know, how much I could research, how busy my schedule is, how I am trying to give the illusion of intelligence, and how little I care about the gnat. This may come back to bite me, if gnats bite. Do they? Anyone?

I think about the hippopotamus who is just so achingly hungry all the time and who will eat almost anything without shame and who wants to fit into the same muddy hole for purposes of bathing that she did when she was younger. She eats and eats and eats as she is constantly starving and looks longingly at the ever-shrinking hole just knowing that she'll never fit in it if she keeps eating but also knowing that she is a hungry hungry hippo and she doesn't have the willpower to rise above the stereotype.

I think about the sad, mournful hyena whom everyone thinks is laughing and just assumes is in an up mood without even taking a moment to check in to see how he is feeling especially considering his father was eaten yesterday. 

I think about the domesticated dog, the house pet, man's best friend who feels trapped and suffocated by his surroundings and his life and the freedom he has sacrificed for safety, all of the petting and grooming he could ever want and some really great dog food. Enough to make a dog bark repeatedly and also to howl, but he doesn't want to sleep outside in the rain again - life inside is good, but it has made him soft. 

I think about the parrot, always asking for a cracker and I imagine her saying "what's wrong with me? Why do I keep on asking for crackers? I don't even like them at all. Well that's not all true, I do enjoy a cracker or two from time to time especially with some goat cheese, but do I think to ever ask for some cheese or a spread to put on top of the crackers? No. I'll never learn and I deserve this mountain of crackers that are taking up most of the spare room in my bird house. Why do I always ask for crackers!"

I think about the goldfish and wonder if they would love to be a lot bigger- like big and strong enough to break out of the glass bowls that imprison them and cramp their style. I imagine a whole school of these large, stylish goldfish patrolling the oceans, flexing their muscles and looking for other fish so they can lay down a swim-off.

I think about the giraffe who just once wants to win a game of hide and seek, or show up at a party unannounced, or at least find a turtleneck sweater that doesn't need altering.

I think about the eel who is totally self-conscious about its length and would give just about anything to have a hand or a foot or to be able to sit in a chair. This eel in specific is quite paranoid and figures everyone is always talking behind his back which is exceedingly hard to do and actually quite impressive considering he is constantly moving and twisting around and that where is back is one second it is gone the next.  

I think about the skunk who smells relatively good all the time and is the laughing stock of the skunk world and would give anything to stink, like really really smell badly. I also think of his cousin who does smell bad - in fact she has an overabundance of odor and would willing share the wealth if she could, but she has no idea how well-endowed she is in this area as her nostrils are small and constantly plugged leading to troubles breathing and also sleep apnea. She is also long overdue for an appointment with an Ear, Nose and Throat specialist which is a field of medicine that is unfortunately quite rarely pursued amongst skunks. The two cousins often get together to complain and to play badminton as they both are quite fond of badminton. 

I think about the subconscious snail who is always leaving a silvery trail behind it and would give anything to leave no trail as it feels like everyone is staring at him and talking about how his trail is looking a little less silvery compared to how it used to. He wants to look, but also doesn't want to be caught looking as he doesn't want to appear to vain, or at least no more vain than the average snail. He would really love to be more anonymous and to just open a small bed-and-breakfast joint that would serve wonderful brunches or to meet a stunning female snail who would not only accept him despite all of his odd traits and then the two could leave silvery trails together.

I think about the koala who is tired of the constant state of exhaustion and lack of mental clarity that comes from a diet purely made up eucalyptus leaves. This koala wants to snap the others out of their stupor and say "this is exactly what they want us to do! Eat leaves and lie around all day! We can be so much more - oh think of the limitless possibilities if we would just stop lying around, resting on our laurels and being cute and appearing cuddly although we would claw any person who would actually try to cuddle with us. Don't let them win! I know the leaves are tasty! Believe me - I get that - I love the leaves too! I'm actually eating one right now. But, it is a big world out there and no one expects us to do anything - we've got them where we want them! Join me as we embark on a new era for koalas." Unfortunately these words fall on deaf ears as almost everyone else is either asleep or feeling pretty flaked out at the time. 

I think about the porcupine who walks around beaming with all the confidence in the world and yet, all he wants is a comforting hug that he could melt into, but that will never come and he knows it. He remembers his mother telling him that his quills will always be there to protect him but will also create a real barrier between himself and all others that will naturally lead towards feelings of isolation and depression despite feeling safe. And, as tempting as it is to have the quills removed through elective surgery, he remembers how freekish his cousin looked like after having that done and he knows that it just isn't an option.

I think of the wasps who fly around essentially impersonating nature's friend the bee. Those wasps do their very best appearing to many people not as the pests they are but like the bees who pollinate our flowers and bring us unpasteurized flavourful honey that may have hints of alfalfa or wildberry. Those wasps probably wish they had more of a purpose then secretly creating hives in carports and damp outside storages that eventually get destroyed while all they get in return is a sting or two and then death by toxic spray. The wasps would love to be adored or at least tolerated and maybe even invited to join some of the private clubs that are all only open to bees. The wasps have tried to appeal to someone, anyone who will listen, but they never get too far, because no one listens to wasps as a general rule. Wasps probably feel like they received the short straw from Mother Nature - everyone loves their cousin the bee and no one loves them.

I think of the dolphin - hyper-intelligent, graceful and powerful. One of the most perfectly beautiful beings that could ever be conceived anywhere by anyone. Those dolphins have it pretty good, but I imagine that they get pretty frustrated beating their heads against the wall - figuratively of course, they have no walls - they do understand how to construct walls, they are dolphins after all, but gave up trying to build them after they realized that having no arms or hands made it next to impossible to get further than developing detailed blueprints - trying to teach other marine life about currents, hydro luminescence, biodiversity and how to make moisture work for you all the while avoiding any skin ailments. However, life is pretty good as dolphins are so smart they are able to "play" just dumb enough to still get invited to all of the parties and for Sunday morning bocci games and read the situation to know when they are no longer wanted and leave to have their own Mensa nights.

I think of the goose who just loves to honk as it brings her so much satisfaction as she is fulfilling her role in the world and makes her feel not only complete but also happy, because who doesn't love a good honk.

I Am Trying To Laugh Like a Hyena

I am debating letting the cat out of the bag, as the public outcry seems to be growing exponentially and I just can't deal with the negativity right now. I'm just warning you that once that cat is out, I can't be held responsible for what happens next. If it were me released from a bag, I'd be fairly unhappy. Don't take that as a threat, more just a statement of fact. On a side note, if you have any other animals you'd like bagged, I will have a newly vacated bag fairly soon and lots of free time.

For years now I've heard the rumour that you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Well, after a long time of blindly accepting that statement as fact, I decided to find out for myself. Step 1: find an old dog. Well, after many a lonely Friday night driving up and down the lanes - check! Step 2: learn some new tricks. I dedicated Saturday mornings for a month, practicing and practicing until finally I mastered a wide array of new tricks all the while having to hear the moaning and whimpering of that old dog in the next room - check! Step 3 (the easy one): teach said dog the new-found tricks. Initially, to my surprise, this was very challenging both because of his obvious lack of interest and energy and my being saddled with my unrealistic expectations. Plus I had already printed and distributed posters around the neighbourhood announcing our triumphant debut show. Failure was not an option - or else I'd always be known as that guy who bragged to everyone about his old-dog-trick-teaching ability and couldn't even teach the dog one single, simple trick - while that would be true, it is just far too long and cumbersome a name to be known by and I would have never been able to show my face in certain circles again (not sure which ones or where they are located, but just knowing it would make me unhappy and always on edge). I'll be honest, there were many times I considered just scrapping the plans and either finding a new dog (especially one who seemed to have a certain proclivity for tricks) or reverting back to some old, tried and true tricks or leaving town on the next train (do people still escape that way?). To make a long story short, tricks were learned and life was never quite the same afterwards.

People are worried that I'm like a wolf in sheep's clothing and I'm not sure how to take that. I will admit that in many ways I am quite wolf-like, what with the sharp claws, the insatiable appetite, the conniving and cunning approach to life, and my love of howling and all howling related activities. And I will also come clean about my love for clothing made out of sheep's wool - it is dazzlingly white, fluffy and comfy beyond belief, a big step-up from the old clothes I used to slum around in back in the day. Those sheep's clothes make me feel like a part of an elite, sheep-clothing-wearing club that dominates the social scene and is the talk of the town. I am told it is wrong for some reason to be wolf-life and to wear the clothing I love, and if others continue to talk about me behind my back in this way, I will be forced to sneak up on them all innocent like and then potentially maul them. I mean if I am being called a wolf I may as well play the part. They've been warned.

When I was young my mother used to tell me to count sheep to fall asleep. Many a night, I lay there in my bed trying to settle down and sleep and those mindlessly jumping sheep were there to help. Sometimes, in my waking and more lucid hours, I would wonder why the sheep were continuously jumping over the same fence. Where were they coming from and where were they going to? Did they enjoy jumping or would they have been equally satisfied walking around the fence if they could have located the gate? Did they feel a certain safety in numbers, as there seemed to be a lot of sheep going to the same unknown destination or did they just have a hard time limiting the guest list and leaving certain sheep out? And why were they always smiling while they jumped rhythmically - did they just love a great tune, really enjoy the exercise as it did wonders for their abs, or, as I suspected as a child, did they know a secret they just weren't sharing? Almost like "we know where we are going and why we are jumping and why we are smiling, but we aren't telling you, little boy. So just head off to sleep already, so we can stop smiling and jumping and head off to the adult sheep party we have planned." I know my mother was aware of my concerns when she her me mutter my wish before blowing out my candles on my 9th birthday - "just once I want to be invited to a private sheep function", which, even for me, was a fairly odd thing to say.

I am often told that I am as blind as a bat. Me as blind as a bat? I wish! Those bats are so cool and fresh and now. They are all like some birds who got done amped up with their funk to scary levels no one has eva seen. Bats dart this way and that way all about their crib and they take nothing from nobody. Are they blind? True dat. Do they care? What do you think sucker? They are taking the blind train to awesome town and you can't even afford a ticket! You hear that? That's what I thought. Bats don't care and they gots styles.They are far too busy flying around, eating fruit and stuff and are taking names (and occasionally napping). Youse best be steering clear of those blind, majestic kings and queens of the caves or if you can't, at least duck as they can't see where they are going and they will probably scratch you something good. But don't feel sorry for them, they ain't watching that show. And neither am I! Why am I told that I am blind as a bat? Not totally sure, haven't given it much thought, to tell you the truth....(actually just did some research and I found out that bats aren't blind at all...that's right they did that too.)

I am trying to laugh like a hyena. I am also trying to walk like a hyena, hunt for food like a hyena, socialize like a hyena and scavenge like a hyena. Essentially, I am trying to be as hyena like as possible. I promised my father I would, and no matter how many times he tried to talk me out of it, I am a man (until the transformation is complete) of my word.

"Oh bee's knees!" my grandmother used to exclaim about nothing in particular. She was like that, if you know what I mean. When dinner turned out great, it was the bee's knees. When a movie had a great twist at the end, it was the bee's knees. If she slipped and fell she'd say bee's knees. When she carefully dissected a large number of actual bees attempting to find the knees, she was sadly disappointed and not even my Charlie Chaplin-esque humour could cheer her up.

I often escape to this place inside where I am the messenger who has been given the important task of sending the life-or-death message to the king. I race against time on horseback through the overgrown forest. Upon my arrival a hush falls upon the castle and I approach the king and queen cautiously. I unfurl my scroll and take a deep breath knowing that so many lives depend not only on the message itself, but also on the eloquence of my delivery. I wet my lips, clear my throat and I squeal like a pig. After a moment's silence, the gathered crowd cheers riotously.

I've decided to come out of the closet. Not that closet! (at least not today -the sliding doors are stuck) No, the other one. I will admit that I've enjoyed my two day holiday in the closet. It was a bit dark and fairly cramped, but at the same time very invigorating. Anyways, I am coming out to let the awaiting public know that it is true- I aspire to be a monkey's uncle. After almost no thought at all, here is what I think I need to do. Book the next flight out of here and head straight to the Democratic Republic of Congo or the Republic of Congo (if I can handle the lack of any democracy or the sole reliance on a pure republic for a few weeks). Once there, spend some time eating the food, becoming one with the people and soaking up the sun. After some time, rent a jeep and take a drive out to the jungle and find a pack of monkeys who seem amenable to my presence. Watch from a far for a week and then slowly and incrementally start participating in monkey rites and rituals and cultural events. Now the next part I'm a little unsure, but I am hoping that one particular female monkey will stand out and catch my eye. If not, I'll have to take a sizable leap of faith and pick one randomly. The key aspect is that she has a brother or sister with a child as I've put in all of this time and effort, not to speak of the multitude of diseases and skin ailments I've subjected myself too, just to be a monkey's uncle. And keep in mind I am only needing to marry a monkey, nothing too weird sicko, and marry her I will. It will be a fairly extravagant wedding, at least from the monkey community's point-of-view. Afterward we return from our honeymoon, I will begin the challenging task of earning my new niece or nephew's trust and love. If not, I'll just fly home and continue my life's work: sketching pictures of cute kittens wearing adorable mittens.

I only cry crocodile tears. Especially when you make me so sad. Why you need to do it, I'll never know. Possibly it is your deep-found respect for crocodiles.

My friends are always referring to me as a dinosaur. Well, initially that got my back up and made me pretty annoyed and pissed off. A dinosaur?!?! Like I'm that old and obsolete? And some of them are older and arguably more obsolete than I am! But then I started to think, maybe being called a dinosaur isn't so bad. Yeah, maybe dinosaurs worked hard everyday to put food on the table (rock? ground?) for their family, and maybe dinosaurs were caring and sensitive "modern" animals who eschewed outdated gender stereotypes and maybe dinosaurs loved spending their free time exercising both their minds and their bodies constantly attempting to better themselves. Well then maybe, just maybe, I am a dinosaur. And proud of it. And if those friends keep calling me that then I'll either eat them (if I am a carnivore) or squash them (if I am a herbivore) or play with them (if I need a friend).

I have been told for years now that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Despite my many attempts, I have no idea at all what this means! When will I ever have a bird in my hand? I mean, unless it is dead and then what sort of weirdo am I? Killing birds only to walk around with their decaying carcasses in my hand!?!? Am I trying to become significantly more unpopular and smelly? Okay, so let's say I could obtain or procure said bird and let's just say, for argument's sake, that the bird is still alive and came to rest on my hand on its own volition. How? Well...maybe I developed a new, irresistible bird seed that birds from far and wide flock to. What? It's possible. You have no idea if I have been revising a bird seed formula for years now or not. Anyways - I now have the bird in my hand and we are parading around town. In my dreams, this is a truly majestic bird with amazingly colourful feathers and it draws the high regard of all passersby. But somehow, this bird in my hand is worth two in a bush? What?!?!? How is that possible? There is just no way a bird that I somehow "convinced" to be in my hand is equivalent in value to two random birds in a bush! I mean what are the birds doing in the bush that is making anyone else's life demonstratively better in any way?!?! Sure they may be attractive and make lovely cheeps and chirps for me to wake up to on spring mornings, but unless those birds are able to complete all of my yard work in a timely fashion and pick little bugs out of my hair without making my scalp bloody it sounds like a wash to me at best.  

When I was 21 I was nearly badgered to death. Even telling this story now brings me close to tears. I was camping alone in the woods and came across a friendly clan of badgers. I'm not sure how it happened, but after a short while, we learned to communicate with each other and soon afterwards, truly understood each other's hopes and wishes and feelings. The two weeks I spent with those badgers were one of the highlights of my life -  a time I really felt loved and a truly accepted part of a group. Things couldn't have been better and if I wasn't due back at university for the start of the next semester I could have seen myself staying. On the final day, all of us were growing emotional and sensing the impact of my leaving. I'm not sure exactly why - maybe it was my emotional state or possibly the exhaustion I felt after having not slept well getting used to their nocturnal schedule or maybe it was because I was starving - whatever the reason,  I raided our group's huge collection of earthworms, insects and grubs that were being saved for the winter. Suffice to say this was not a hugely popular move and after being attacked and beaten by this small collection of short-legged, weasel-like creatures, I gathered my belongings and walked 10 metres to my car and drove home.

Stallions race wildly on the beach kicking up huge clouds of sand. A mother bird feeds her babies in their precariously balanced nest. A lonely buffalo wanders aimlessly wondering where his friends have gone. The father penguin warms his baby boy while his wife braves the icy water in search of food. A team of termites hollow out an old tree trunk. And through it all there is whisper on the wind that only one who is truly listening can hear. The voice softly calls out "How now brown cow?"

I am a not a night owl. I am more like an late evening owl or sometimes a daytime owl. Well, not actually a daytime owl, probably closer to an early to middle afternoon owl although sometimes that can stretch into the early evening depending on what I had for lunch. Somedays I jump out of bed and could pass for a morning owl, except there are no morning owls, so I usually go to the gym and try to delay the olwing until at least the late morning or early to middle lunchtime. I agree that a night owl makes more sense, but I'm just to worn out from the day to make it happen. So, ideally middle to late lunch or early to mid afternoon and occasionally something around dinner time are my favourite times. If you are needing an owl impersonator or someone to do some owl-type chores or just to sit around looking wise, you know when is best for me. If you really are in need of a night owl, I hear Joe is good for that.

The early bird catches the worm, or so I've been told since I was a child. To test that theory, I woke up at the crack of dawn for two straight weeks and crouched ready to spring in my backyard. The result? Aside from witnessing a few beautiful sunrises and enjoying many sprinklings of fresh dew, I now have a collection of an array of "early birds". Enjoy your freedom worms!

There is more than one way to skin a cat, but only one way that meets the standard of the ICSA (the International Cat Skinning Association) an association I find abhorrent, yet whose agenda is oddly compelling when one of my cats won't stop meowing and scratching at the door at 3am.

You can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink. Well maybe the horse just isn't thirsty have you thought about that, smart guy? Nope! You are just sitting there what with your horn-rimmed glasses and your goatee just assuming that all horses must be thirsty and that they would appreciate your gift of some water. Well, let me tell you, your water ain't all that. First - it's lukewarm - I know because I got down on my hands and knees all horse-like and tried some. Yuck! Either put some ice in it or don't expect any one to be drinking it. Second - it's got strands of hay in it. Let me tell you something - horses like hay and they like cold water, but they don't like them mixed together! It would be like me mixing in some of your peanut butter and jam sandwich with your milk. Do you want that? Well, I tried some (that's why there was a bite from your sandwich and your glass looked used) and it wasn't that great - soggy sandwich and muddy milk. Third, maybe the horses want things to be switched up from time to time - like maybe some green tea for digestion? Or some pomegranate juice for all of the antioxidants? Or maybe some espresso  -mostly because that would be so muh fun for us to watch. So, that's right - you can do all of the horse-to-water leading you want, but just don't expect to get the result you are looking for.

I, like most people, enjoy a good wild goose chase. For many years people had domesticated goose chases, which were boring and hard to sell tickets for and almost definitely fixed. I am glad those sad, sorry days are behind us.

I am sly like a fox. Shhhh.

Stop Being A Chicken!

I pride myself upon being an albatross around your neck. I've always had a great admiration for albatrosses and all albatross-related activities, and felt they were somehow greatly misunderstood. I also have a thing for your neck and all activities involving it.

I am as busy as a bee. I'm not well-versed in all things bee, but I guess they must be really freakin' busy. I mean why isn't the expression as busy as a wasp? Or maybe there is a little alliteration going on, so why not as busy as a beetle? Or as happy as a bee? I mean do we know bees are that busy? Am I? Are you?

I am attempting to be as happy as a clam but fear that I am falling way short and am probably more accurately as happy as some slightly less happy mollusk or shellfish. I mean we are talking about a clam here! Sure I'd love to be as a happy as one of those guys, but that is like wishing for the impossible. Talk about setting the bar too high.

When I quit things I always quit cold turkey mostly as an homage to my childhood friend Timmy the Turkey. Timmy and I spent so many memorable hours together on the farm, until my dad said it was time to eat him. I remember that day as if it was yesterday- what a mixture of emotions - sadness, hunger...and that's it actually, so it's rather a duo of two emotions rather than a mixture that implies a complex combination of a long laundry list of feelings. I recall it as if it was yesterday, sitting there the next day eating cold pieces of turkey doused with my own salty tears. God rest your tasty soul, Timmy the Turkey.

I am hogging your time once again, akin to Generalissimo Francisco Franco's politically oppressive rule of Spain during World War Two....wait a sec, something just doesn't seem right...let me check something out...upon further review of Franco's Wikipedia page, what I am doing with your time is nowhere close to what Franco did in Spain. I mean I am hogging your time, like right now while you read this, but the analogy just didn't work in the slightest, even I have to admit that. Sorry.

I will tell on you like a rat. You know you deserve it, you know what you've done. I have no other option but to rat on you and tell all what you've done. You may not like it, but rat on you I will. I am undecided if telling on you like a rat, involves sounding like a rat as well, and if it does, I have a lot of work ahead of me tonight before the big day tomorrow.

I learned the hard way not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I did and I lived to regret it. It was educational and disgusting.

Stop being a chicken! I am asking you for the last time to cease all chicken-related actions. Do you understand? No. More. Chicken. I mean it is cute and everything - the waddling, the shaking your tail-feathers, the fear, head-bobbing, but enough is enough. On the other hand, I fully endorse you counting chickens before they hatch. I mean it is somewhat risky. You never know what is going to happen and if you gamble too much and lose, you may regret it. But, what is life without some danger, some intrigue, some as-yet-unhatched-chicken egg-counting? Just to summarize - under no circumstance acting like a chicken, but putting a lot of stock on the eggs of said chickens is totally fine. If that makes little to no sense to you, then I wonder why you talk to me at all.

I am often a large pink elephant in a room. Here is how it usually goes down. There is a room. People enter the room, usually through the door but occasionally using a ladder and coming through the window. There is some small talk - the weather, the ball game, Louisa's hilarious pant suit. There is some silence, normal at first but quickly becoming awkward. People uncomfortably sense my presence. They want to talk about me but they can't. If people did discuss my being around everyone would feel a whole lot better. But, do they talk about me? Noooooooo!!! Don't talk about the elephant that just happens to be in a room with you?!?! Does that make any sense at all? I'm a flippin' elephant and I'm in a room? That doesn't warrant mentioning?!!?! That's right, go enjoy your awkward conversation sissies. That's me - the big, ol' pink elephant - making situations and conversations more uncomfortable everyday. You're welcome!

I picked up a side job last week as a guinea pig. The first few days were awesome - I felt pampered and loved. But, then came all of poking and prodding, the needles, the deprivation chambers and the hot sauce sampling. The pay is okay, I wanted to shave my back and experiment with electrodes anyways and it does keep me off the streets, but I have this strange feeling that all I am is a pawn in someone else's experiments. And though they try to make me feel important, I have a feeling that I am easily replaceable.

I am in the dog house, again. This time I went there on my own volition, unlike other times when I was either sent there or went there to get away from it all. This is day number give in the dog house. The smell is a bit much, lying on the damp grass all night is giving me a sensitive skin issue, and I could do without being licked all the time by my new roommate. As each day passes, I am feeling more and more like a dog and I have an overwhelming desire to sock that annoying cat and to dig up my own yard and poop on my own flowers. After which I will shame myself, not feed myself and possibly kick myself - par for the course on a usual Saturday afternoon.

The cat got my tongue. It really hurts! Why didn't anyone warn me how much this would hurt!?!?! I mean I didn't think it would be a walk in the park, but the searing pain is over the top ouchy. Last time I fall for that prank.

Funny story. Okay, so I spent much of my summer as a duck-impersonator. This challenging task was made much easier due to the hours upon hours of duck observing I did as a youth. While all of my friends were out being typical teenagers  - hanging out by the mall, watching movies, tanning at the beach - my days were monopolized by three activities, making homemade tar, eating nachos and watching ducks. I always had a feeling while I sat there with my book, writing notes about the ducks with my tar-stained, greasy, nacho-covered fingers, that someday it would all be worth it. I walked around Main Street quacking at tourists, dipping my feet into paint and making webbed-footprints on the wall to confuse people, and using my beak to rid myself of small insects. This awesome summer came to a depressing end, when I sprained my ankle trying to run away from a sinister wolf-impersonator (I found out after the fact that he was being chased by an actual duck who, in turn, was being chased by an actual wolf). I will never again flippantly call someone a lame duck.

I am the judge, jury and executioner in my very own kangaroo court. I thoroughly enjoy the challenge of the judging and the wisdom gained by doing it. Being the lone juror is pressure-filled but I am up to the task. However, I cannot bring myself to execute or even jail any of the guilty kangaroos, they are just too cute and have such strong and powerful legs that they can kick me with repeatedly like an actual human boxing bag.

I am just coming off a three-month stint as a stool pidgeon. To say it was fun would be to use an incorrect and confusing usage of the term. I was relentlessly and harshly teased by a large variety of birds both flightless and the annoying ones who fly. My guess is that the others think that I was a spy for "the man". I keep telling them all that it is not a man but a statue of a man - I mean he is green and never leaves the park...actually they are right, that could describe a bunch of real men I know too. I am out now - back to my regular life and as hard as it was being a stool pigeon, I was well compensated. However, I am waiting for some recognition for learning fluent and convincing bird in such a short time.

I had an incredibly bright and incredibly strange grade four teacher (she was also incredibly tall and incredibly good at the cha cha, but that isn't important right now). She also had an avant-garde method towards teaching that was extremely cutting edge, which all of the kids loved. One of my fondest memories was when she taught us the birds and the bees. I know what you are thinking, a class of giggling, immature kids learning about s-e-x. If it was only that simple. She taught us a dramatic and highly interactive unit about genetically enhanced birds and bees that reproduced at an exponential rate that put even bunnies to shame. These advanced birds and bees enslaved the early humanoids and made us complete the most mundane household tasks - folding the laundry, drying the dishes, cleaning out the lint tray. I was never quite clear who enhanced them or why and I was also quite unclear about the actual birds and bees which became quite obvious on a number of embarrassing occasions. One of the great unanswered questions of my youth is what happened to those genetically enhanced birds and bees. I guess I'll never know. And also what happened to my grade four teacher - I often worry about her.

I am a horrible swimmer and I think a major part of the problem is that I was taught to swim like a fish. Actually, the methods of swimming that were used on me were just one part of an entirely-fish based early childhood education system of which I was the trial student. I was taught to eat food off of hooks without getting cut (I am mindlessly caressing one of the scars as I write this), to drink like a fish (harder than it looks - the pursed lips make it next-to-impossible), and to travel around in groups like a "school". When I started at mainstream school at the age of thirteen my eating and drinking habits drew lots of negative attention and I had an impossible time convincing my classmates to travel so closely together as I had been taught. I still drink like a fish to this day and am the author of the controversial text "Do Fish Drink and, If So, Do They Prefer Filtered Water?"

My days of following others like a sheep are over. I am taking some courses at the local community college to expand my brain and to learn to better think for myself. That, and most of the people I used to follow have installed proximity detectors that beep loudly if I am too near by.

What a slug! I can't believe how slow that dude is!?! I mean can he not move a little bit faster? Does he realize there is a long line behind him and we all have places to be? I am flummoxed by his sluggishness and I am wondering about the silvery trail he is leaving on the ground behind him but I am not going to ask as I don't really want to know.

It is true. I was the black sheep of the family. Hard to get your mind around that as I seem like such a nice, reasonably normal guy what with my school boy complexion, my bouncy ball and my stamp collection. Not only was I the black sheep, but as I discovered in embarrassing fashion, I was also the only sheep. In my mind I was this cool, hip black sheep with an incredible vertical and the other members of my extended family were all shepherds. No roaming for me. And limited grazing in the yard. Also far too many sheerings for my taste. At least I didn't get branded like my cousin. Upon closer inspection on my fifteenth birthday I wasn't a sheep at all.