Gusgus In The Can

Dogs. You can't live with 'em...and yet you can. Or CAN you?!


My dog's name is Gus, sometimes Gusgus, sometimes Gustauvo and then again, sometimes Brigitta (from The Sound of Music. I flatten his ears on top of his head and make him sing, "So Long, Farewell, Aufweidersein, Adieu." No animals are harmed in this performance). And I am convinced that Gusgus is my stoner brother, Gary, reincarnated.

My brother Gary was sweet, very, yet definitely not a rocket scientist. Gus=same. Gary had red hair with blond running through it. Gus=same. Gary could talk you into giving him your dessert. Gus=same. Gary smoked pot daily. Gus=I suspect same. I'm putting a tail on him. So to speak.

Gusgus insists on making himself known whether he's in the room or not. If he doesn't think he's getting enough attention, he goes into the bathroom. Since the door only swings one way, and he can't seem to remember this, once he's in the bathroom he can't get back out again. So he whines - stuck in the can again. Wow...so did Gary.

Gus needs to make sure he's known even if he's not in the same city, state or zip code, really. He runs about depositing hair everywhere, particularly on clothes and most particularly if they're black. This hair does not budge, not onto the average sticky roller or the magic lint-away. I couldn't even get it out from between my teeth the other day while I was interviewing at Target. Hmmmm, how...anti-cultural...? Please see former post. You know which one.

Gary had long red that hung all the way down to his bum. So does Gus. Gary took medication every day. So does Gus. Gary used to kick me under the dinner table when he was high, trying to get me to laugh with him. Jeez! So does Gus!

Gary was my best friend, who loved me no matter what. So is Gus.

Today I am grateful to have him...back.