Dad’s take: A songwriter’s muse

Chick has long been the muse for my bathtub songwriting.  He inspired me to pen updates to old standards, such as “Chick[en] on My Mind,” “American Bull,” and “Every Chick Has Its Thorn.”

The songs were always simple but catchy, never imparting more than three key pieces of information about Chick: (1) Chick is a dog; (2) Chick is white; and (3) Chick weighs 50 pounds.

As you can see, I don’t have a lot of talent in this department.


So, it’s taken me a while to find the right inspiration from the Dude.  Well, it happened this weekend on our little road trip out to the Hill Country.  The tune, best played on a ukulele, draws from American roots music, and tells the story of the Dude’s first road trip.  It’s called, “Dude, Please Don’t Puke in My Daddy’s New Buick (Again).”  It’ll be available any day now on iTunes.
Check in tomorrow for more about that road trip…

Foster Dad’s Take: Guard Dog

You’ve heard a lot from FosterMom about Zee’s beauty, her love of car rides, and her fine taste in furniture.  But I wanted to share one of my favorite things about our little lady: her utter incompetence as a guard dog.

Every evening when I walk in the door after a long day at work, Zee hears me fumble with the lock and lets out a staccato but somewhat hoarse woof.  It’s never more than a lone syllable, but it’s loud.  Next, however, she doesn’t come bounding over to the door to check me out.  Instead, I hear her slowly disentangle herself from the cozy jelly bean she’s formed at Foster Mom’s feet and saunter toward the door.  As she rounds the corner, coming within sight of the door, she pauses, head and ears cocked, her forehead wrinkled with curiosity.
When Zee sees it’s me, she romps over for a hearty back massage, leaning so far into me that she loses her balance and plops her butt down on the floor.
Good guard dog!

Chix-a-Lot Friday: Foster Dad’s Take

FosterMom often describes Chick as an “ambassadog,” which I think means that Chick’s charm, good looks, and positive attitude easily win over skeptics and show how loving these tough-looking dogs can be.  Common early reactions to Chick include, “He’s really a pit bull?  But he seems so friendly!” or “He’s so well behaved for a pit bull!” or “Does he bite?” or, my personal favorite, “He could turn at any moment.”  But Chick’s admirers quickly are convinced otherwise.

When we first met, we were not too interested in each other.  Chick emerged from the shelter and dove headlong into the important task of sniffing the ground.  He breathed deeply, relishing the outside-of-the-shelter earth and all its scented mysteries.  It was the equivalent of a man long at sea who gratefully kisses dry land upon his return.  Chick was getting a good whiff of freedom.

I, on the other hand, was apprehensive.  Although FosterMom had told me all about how friendly and gentle Chick was, I had never met a pit bull.  I contemplated his big boxy head, thick neck, and wrinkly forehead.  I offered a hand.  Not nearly as interesting as dirt.  I took his leash, and he dragged me, zigzag, across the parking lot.

It was a short and successful courtship.  When we got home, Chick began to show off his charisma.  He curled up happily on his new dog bed.  He offered his warm, pink belly for a good rub.

Plus, I soon learned that Chick and I have a lot in common.  We both enjoy tennis…

playing in the snow…

reading the newspaper…

admiring art…

studying for law school exams…

and, every once in a while, enjoying a glass of good scotch.

We became fast friends.

“He could turn at any moment . . . and give you a big, juicy, tuna-flavored French kiss.”

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