People Make Me Sad

I have seen the end of humanity when it comes to pets. I thought we were nuts when we started dressing them up (outside of the “I live in Siberia, the damn chihuahua needs a bloody sweater–STAT!”). Then I thought we lost our collective cool when we stuffed them in misshapen purses and took them to Whole Foods. Turns out what was previously rock bottom has just continued to shift.

Doga, according to the dust cover on the book in the used book store, is the ancient art of Yoga (also known as Let’s Twist into a Pretzel than Fall on our Face!) for you and your beloved pooch! I am not kidding. Go look, I will wait.


I take umbrage to the “Brilliant” portion of the author’s name.

Some poor bitch bought this book to bring her and her mutt closer spiritually and, incidentally, get those long rope like muscles that currently make Madonna look like a zombie. Hopefully, she was merely a victim to something I call “Drink and Amazon” which is how I end up with all my cartoons. Otherwise, she was stone cold sober in a book store. Which makes me sad. But! She (or he, I am not genderly judging) came to her senses, possibly after Muffy or Rex bit her in the face, and wandered down to my personal paper nirvana to trade that for some store credit. Also to provide me with deep amusement.

Doga will teach your dog to feel it’s breath, enjoy the chant, and focus on their third eye. I grudgingly give credence to the third eye due to A: semi consistent practice with many different navel gazers and B: pagan belief system. I do not, however, feel that my fuzz bottomed girl knows, cares,or thinks beyond “You eat food. You give ME food. I AM STARVING LOVE ME WITH FOOD.” To my untrained eye, many of the poses in the book look like the ones my girl does already, perhaps while digesting a rather large meal.

Currently my girl is deeply involved in my yoga practice. Every Downward Facing Dog requires a nose lick and every Child’s Pose requires that I also massage the dog butt while contemplating my deep breathing. Corpse requires the open cupped palms be filled with inquisitive whiskers. That amount of canine involvement; I can totally handle.

No Yoga for me, Mom!

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