Context is Everything -or- I Might Be Eating Dog Treats

Marketing. I do this for a day job. So my off-duty brain is always making note of how products are positioned, what packaging looks like, and the estimated public tolerance duration for Office Camels asking Life's Great Questions like, "Anybody know what day it is?"

But I admit, a recent trip to the grocery store had my marketing brain flummoxed. Because in the Giant Eagle supermarket, in the pet food aisle, was a very unexpected display. 

Now, normally, these free-standing bins contain colorful rawhide chews... new cat food flavors described in the same manner as five-star restaurant specials... or lint rollers because--well, you haven't seen my house, but... lint rollers. 

But instead, in this small cardboard shelf--right by the refrigerator case containing products for the dog who gets back to his wolf heritage by buying prepackaged single-serving beef options as they did in the Old World when they ran out of grandmothers--here was a box of whole grain air popped crackers that came in Cheese or Barbecue. 

The chip aisle was several rows away. 

I was drawn to examine the box more closely. "Supergrains!" it told me. 

"3.5 grams of fat per serving!" it proclaimed.

"Dare," read the brand. 

So I did. Because it's so rare to find a snack that meets my very narrow dietary restrictions. Plus it didn't mention anything about "promoting a shiny, healthy coat" or being "excellent for teeth and gums," though, I'd be up for that, too.

So I now I have officially tried these Breton Popped Supergrain Crackers, and the verdict? 

Let's just say, if these are dog biscuits, you can call me "Lassie." They're delicious. And I plan to pick up another box today...

Well, right after I bury a few things and sniff some people.


Duty first, you know.

If People Acted Like Pets- Office Edition

I've learned a lot about living with a pet, since adopting my cat, Alice, almost two months ago. Things like: puncture wounds really can mean love. And: wool pile stroking your cheek in the night doesn't mean the area rugs are getting frisky.

But I've been thinking, the lives our pets lead might not apply well to the world of humans, particularly in the corporate world. Simply because this is how that might go:

• Business breakfast meetings would start with coffee, danish, and half the execs running circles around the conference room table excitedly sharing tales of what a great poop they just had.

• All group projects would require two employees to attempt the task, and two to hop up and lay on the project planning document.

• Dull meetings would be filled with long, loud sighs bearing the weight of the world.

• All project discussion would cease when someone accidentally drops a paperclip. Meetings would allow time for executives to compete and see who will bat it around the room.

• When you can't find one of your colleagues in his office, you know he's in the shipping room, leaping in and out of the mailing boxes.

• The corporate cafeteria would serve meat, bones, meat and meat.
  

• Powerpoint presentations would find half the staff in the audience, and the other half up front blocking the screen.

• Business restrooms would be the same, but TP would be tracked with gusto around the office space.

• Dropping the ball in your job would suddenly also involve digging your teeth into it and refusing to pass it to the person you've been working closely with.
  

• And when your boss asks you out for a bite... you bite him.

You pet-owning folks have any more to add to this list? I'd love to read 'em!

Eau de Terrier Blanc: A Unique Fragrance

Lisa's post over at Boondock Ramblings--- about the eye-watering stench of one of her cats-- reminded me of my four-legged friend, Fritz.

Now Fritz was a past landlord's dog, a large and cheerful white terrier. Because he traded on looks over brains-- (that dog made Goofy look like Stephen Hawking after a couple of cups of coffee)-- Fritz was the lovable idiot you just felt compelled to pet.

The mental negligence I understood. That was from one too many concussions. Each day, I would leave for work where Fritz would race me to the metal gate, and skid out head-first into it.

"Bong!"

Each evening, he would see me returning home and do the same.

"Clang!"

You had to admire his enthusiasm, if not his coordination.

But the smell, now that was a mysterious phenomenon that simply hadn't made it into the Natural Wonders list yet.

And it wasn't one I would notice right away, no. But it would sidle up-- an aroma of pure, unabashed, eternal, deep-radiating, primeval Dogocity. The kind that would wrap its yellow-green tendrils around the ol-factory senses... and hump the heck outta them.

It didn't matter if he'd just been to the groomers, either. Fritz would return all fluffy white, trimmed and joyous, a clean bandanna slung jauntily around his neck. And a brief affectionate pat on the head would leave traces of a gagging canine stink that multiple hand-washings, handiwipes, sandpaper and sulfuric acid would not remove.

Now Fritz's mother, Henrietta, lived down the street. She was an outside dog, calm, mild-mannered and grateful for any speck of attention anyone gave her.

And, one day, it occurred to me that Henrietta might serve as a decent control group to test the Fritz Foulness problem. Was this mysterious Puppy Putrescence something to do with the breed, the family line, or just Fritz himself?

I was determined to find out!

So as I approached the lady dog with my daily greeting, it was this time I paused. And petted...

And, um, sniffed. Deeply.

It occurred to me later that anyone watching out their windows might find it a little odd to see someone stop, play with, and then sniff someone's dog.

They might consider it equally strange to see that person leave, energetically sniffing their own hand and making mental notes of it.

Ah, but much out of the ordinary must be done in the name of Science! We didn't see Alexander Fleming recoiling from penicillin and crying, "Eeew! What's that green stuff? Gross! Take it away!"

No. He said, "Hm! Jolly! Someday people will be over-medicating with this."

And I learned something important from my little experiment, too. I learned that the all-weather female, four-wheel-drive model of the great Fritzmeister was completely odor-free.

Now, I haven't expanded the experiment to other terriers of this type, because, well, I got bored.

Also, I have sinus problems.

Also-also, I don't want to be known as "Crazy Dog Sniffer."

But I think it's reasonably safe to say that the problem was uniquely Fritz' own. Was it some gland issue? Some evolutionary glitch? An unfortunate designer dog signature fragrance choice?

We may never know.

If only it could have been used for the powers of Good. Harnessed in the right hands, I believe Eau de Terrier Blanc could have reshaped today's on-the-ground warfare. Concentrated and formed into exploding capsules, the enemy would be rendered completely incapacitated for miles. And nobody would ever have to get hurt.

I'd say there might even be a Peace Prize in that!... (And hey, we've seen those things handed out for less.)

Pass the handiwipes.

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