Felix: he never aged, until suddenly he did, and then he was gone. So now there are no more dogs in my house.
Please indulge me by taking a minute to look at the many faces* of Felix P. Hoenikker, AKA The Best Dog Ever:
Now that we’ve signed a lease on our new San Francisco apartment (!!!), I can share with you this most ridiculous of documents, the dog résumé, which I felt like a dang fool writing but which also worked like gangbusters helping us land a great place. I’ll be launching my Bay Area pet résumé consultancy within the next few weeks.
Felix the Sheepdog — also known as Dumpledore, Noodlebutt, Gassy McPootsalot, or Felix P. Hoenikker, Attorney at Paw — recently celebrated his 12th birthday, for which he received and demolished a double cheeseburger (hold all the vegetable fixins’, please). It was the least we could do to acknowledge his continued ability to live, and also to stay on his good side.
Dear Canine Oncologist,
You were very nice, and spent quite a long time talking with us, which I appreciate. Chester seemed to like you as well, as evidenced by his decision not to express his anal glands all over your expensive shoes. (You’re welcome.)
I was recently giving a presentation to colleagues, during which I noted that one of my dogs once stole a piece of fried chicken from a sleeping homeless man.
At the time, we had a long talk with him about homelessness and poverty, and how many people are a single paycheck or medical emergency away from sleeping on a park bench and having their fried chicken stolen by a dog who eats food made of humanely-raised, Montessori-educated lambs twice a day. He spent several seconds reflecting on what he’d done before wandering off to urinate on a prize-winning rose bush.
It seems that King of States! readers do not visit this blog for insights into the state of tech startup hiring and management — utterly shocking. However, while I will not cave to popular demand and start writing Iceberg Hunters fanfic, please know that there is a great deal more strident feminism yet to be expressed here.
In the meantime, here’s a picture of one of my dogs totally judging you:
Dear Westin Copley Place Boston,
Your pillow-topped bed was luxurious, your clam chowder delicious, and your employees just on the right side of obsequious.
When I filled out my post-stay survey, I didn’t enter anything into the “What could we have done to improve your stay?” field. Upon further reflection, I would like to suggest that you make large fluffy dogs available to your guests.
I know there are some hotels that loan goldfish to their pet-deprived guests, to which I say: have you ever tried to spoon with a goldfish? I burned through 17 of those suckers before I gave up, and then I had to have the sheets changed in the middle of the night. Not fun.
The specimen to your left, from genus Chester J. Lampwick and Felix P. Hoernicker, are highly experienced snugglers and would be available to fill the role for a modest salary, payable in dried liver treats.
I await your reply.
I guess I should just be happy that he unwrapped the cough drops first. I expect that when I wake up tomorrow, he’ll have opened the fridge and re-heated the leftover General Tso’s chicken.