Eye of Newt and Toe of Frog

Blogger has been watching a good deal of Long Island Medium lately. It's my newest guilty pleasure. It fascinates me, the whole business that takes place on the "other side." I often wonder how it feels to sit down and chat with the dearly departed. In honor of the month of all things ghoulish and ghostly, I went there.
The preceding psychic encounter is purely fictional. No dead people were harmed in the creation of this post.
(Blogger dons her purple satin cape, spreads her tarot cards and closes her eyes. And then, alas! A bustle in her hedgerow)

Me: Hark who goes there?
WS: Pardon? Does thou know who I am?
Me: Bill? Is that you?
WS: That's Mr. Shakespeare to you, madam.
Me: My apologies. Why have you chosen to come forth to me on this fine evening, Mr. Shakespeare?
WS: I'm done to death by slanderous tongue. Was the hero that here lies!
Me: (sighs) In English, please Mr. S.
WS : I'm pissed.
Me: Wow. What gives?
WS: Tis a nasty rumor surfacing that slanders my original talents.
Me: You mean the latest movie claiming you didn't actually write your own stories?
WS: Otherwise known as this thing of darkness.
Me: You know, it's kinda obnoxious to continually quote yourself.
WS: I am dying, Egypt. Dying.
Me: With all due respect Will, you're already dead. The drama is over the top. Anyhow who cares what people think. It's just a theory.
WS: It's rubbish dear girl. Lord what fools these mortals be!
Me: You're doing it again.
WS: Sorry. I've called upon you to spread the word of truth. Defend my honor.
Me: Well, okay but...but what if its true? What if you weren't actually the author of all that cra - uh - stuff they made me read in high school. I mean the word is you were uneducated, and that your will makes no mention of your plays, poems or writings. It's a little odd, don't ya think? Maybe all that glitters is not so gold.
WS: Et tu, Brute? Please, woman how else can I set the record straight?
Me: Why don't you just chillax, Willie? Stop worrying. Isn't there something better for you to do with your time these days?
WS: Hmm. There is that Caribbean poker game I have lined up with King Henry the Eighth and Elvis. But those guys cheat.
Me: Get at it then. Thanks for dropping by. Parting is such sweet sorrow.
WS: Ciao baby.

A Tail of Two Cities

The way I see it there are two types of doggies in this world. There are the ones, like mine, who spend their days lounging on the sofa, between two perfectly plumped pillows, cold water dish at the ready, wee-wee pad at the back door just in case Nature calls before the humans get home. They have a wardrobe closet complete with woolen jackets for inclement weather walks. These are the upper-crust canines, the pampered pooches.
Then there's the kind that kick it outdoors most days, trapped behind a gate, digging in the dirt for amusement and seeking out a splotch of decent shade when the midday sun blares harshly from above, an awning when the gray skies let loose. I affectionately refer to these as the every-dog, average Joe-junkyard variety.
Both are born equal. Yet where they end up is anybody's ball game. I'm beginning to wonder if there's a class distinction between these doggies. Maybe not so much upper and lower. Maybe in a dog's world it's more like Inner Class and Outer Class.
I was taking my pup for a stroll yesterday when we trotted past an average Joe-junkyard, his nose wedged inside the fence grating as he sniffed us out, deciding quickly that he'd better bark to keep us back. Pampered Pooch barked a greeting in return. If I were to translate, I believe the conversation actually went something like this:
AJJ: Hey pal, nice sweater. Your human knit that for ya? (snicker)
PP: Nice yard. How's that cement bed treating you?
In reality perhaps the greatest thing about dogs is that they have no frame of reference, no prejudice. Upper, lower, inner, outer, its all the same to them. Reminds me of one of my fave quotes on the subject:

In order to really enjoy a dog, one doesn't merely try to train him to be semi human.  The point of it is to open oneself to the possibility of becoming partly a dog.  ~Edward Hoagland

Woof.