Here we are looking at the water line connection on the fridge.

As you can see from the photo, we are dangerously trapped between the back of the refrigerator and the kitchen wall. At any moment, we thought, the huge, merciless refrigerator could come rolling back and crush us. But that wasn’t all that scared us. Notice that we are surrounded by high voltage wires and high pressure water pipes and tubes and all manner of dangerousness. We didn’t know whether the shut off valve would burst and shoot water all over us or if we would slip on the resulting wet surface and break something.

We thought about refusing such a dangerous task, but our cruel master, in his sadistic way, promised us each a cookie if we put the filter in, so we were victimized by our hunger (being chronically underfed, as we have thoroughly documented in this blog), and by our doggie instincts, which our master exploits at every turn.

While our cruel master watched some mindless TV show, we labored until our paws were raw and our little backs ached, all the time working in the stark fear that at any moment we might be crushed, drowned, strangled, or electrocuted. However, we eventually got the filter installed, the 12-year-old water line replaced with a stainless steel reinforced hose, and everything tested. Only then did our master let us out from in back of that huge, terrifying threat.

Yes, we pride ourselves on being fearless attack dogs, but we know pointless danger when we see it. Okay, okay, we will calm down now. Breathe deeply and exhale. Relax. We’re safe now.

Wolf and Bear get ready to read about decision making.

We thought the best place to start was to help our master think more rationally by making better decisions. So we got out our books on decision making and started to refresh our memories. As you can see in the photo, Bear is more of a classicist, focusing on the practical and theoretical aspects of standard decisioin modeling and treasuring the venerable Decision Traps and that old standard, Why Decisions Fail. Wolf, on the other hand, is more of a contemporary reader who enjoys the psychological, sociological, environmental, and even genetic causal analyses of decision failures. He finds Predictably Irrational a very stimulating work. And since our cruel master seems to be something of a mental case, the psychological approach might just be the better one. After all, you can lead a human to reason, but you can’t make him think. (That’s one of the ancient proverbs by Caninus.)

So anyway, we were busy with our noses buried in our books when our master walked into the room. “What kind of ghastly infamy are you iniquitous dogs plotting now?” he asked, committing the fallacies of ad hominem and compound questions in one breath (not to mention emotive language). We told him we wanted to help him make better decisions. To which he sneered, “The only decision you two ever make is that you want a cookie.”

Do you see the kind of treatment we must endure? Needless to say, he wasn’t open to any advice, so we finished our chapters and took a nap.

A couple of days ago, we could stand this no longer. We were actually starting to feel guilty about how much water we are drinking. But before we tried going thirsty, we decided to take a look at the water bill. That was easy, because our master is a total and complete slob in his housekeeping. Receipts are stuffed in a low wire basket where they can be rifled through by a short dog without any problem.

So we put our noses to good purpose and shoved papers around until we found a recent water bill. To our surprise, the charge for the water itself was only $3.64 for a month! And even adding the water service charge brought the total to only $11.39. Then we looked at the water usage. It was 2992 gallons. At the water-plus-service-charge rate, that’s .38068 cents per gallon. Our water container holds half a gallon and our stingy master fills it about once a week. So that means we drink about two gallons a month. And that means that the cost of the water we drink is about .7636 of a cent. Yes, only a bit over three quarters of a cent per month.

Then the horrifying thought occurred to us that perhaps our cruel master is our crazed master instead, a fiend who believes that we are actually costing money for water. That thought is so disturbing that we need to stop now.

You can tell by our expressions what an ordeal we've just gone through.

There are other rules, but I’m trying to forget them. Besides, in my current state of mental exhaustion (just look at my photo–that’s me, Bear, on the left), I’m in no condition to remember anything. Our cruel master forced us to build the wall while he read the rules and mocked us when we got something wrong. I’m afraid that Wolf will never be the dog he once was–just look at the vacant stare and the robotic tail wagging. Blunted affect or catatonic hysteria, it seems to me. (I can’t find my copy of the DSM IV-TR right now, but I’m sure poor Wolf is on several pages.)

The other traumas of this past week were that our master took us to the vet to get our nails trimmed. Note that our master won’t trim our nails himself–he doesn’t want any incriminating evidence. So he leaves the dirty work to the vet, who takes us into a back room and does the deed where no one can hear or see us. I thought they were going to take my leg off at the joint, but somehow I survived, and so did Wolf.

Then, back home, our master started talking to us in his saccharine voice, as if we were going to get a treat. Naturally we ran over to get it when he seized me and swung me up into the sink where he had a stream of hot water running. He sprayed the water all over me for awhile, and then rubbed some foaming smelly chemical all over my fur. Then he ran the hot water all over me again. Finally, he rubbed my fur with large pieces of material until my fur was all frizzy and puffed out. (No French poodle will ever give me the eye while I look like that.) Then he proceeded to do the same to Wolf. I tell you, we need to formulate an escape plan.

After it stops raining.

You can see the hunger in our eyes as our cruel master taunts us with a cookie.

In the process of his gluttonous shoveling in (scarcely looking at his pitiful doggies), he thoughtlessly left the eggrolls on the coffee table (where he eats dinner), even after finishing.

Next evening, master heated up the leftovers and then suddenly thought about the missing eggrolls. Helooked in the TV room and saw a few scraps of waxed paper bag on the floor. “What happened to my eggrolls?” he demanded. “Did you dogs eat them?” Here again, we see the total cluelessness of our cruel master. On one side, here are two half-starved, underfed, beg-for-a-scrap little skin and bone doggies, and on the other side are two warm, aromatic, siren-calling, temptation skyscrapers whose names are eggroll–on a low table just accessible by a small dog or two. What does he think happened to them.

As you can see from the photo with today’s entry, our cruel master sadistically makes us jump for every little “treat” as he calls the cheap dog biscuits he buys.

At any rate, our defense, if–and I’m not saying we did–if Bear and I ate the eggrolls, it was an act of necessity in the face of near famine. Bear has read that some dogs get to 140 pounds or even more, while we are still in the single digits.

Hmmm, something is making me hungry.

Here is Bear reading the manual for the electric chain saw.

Here is Wolf trying to make sense of the chain saw manual.

Let’s give you an example. Our master was getting ready to visit a friend where he was going to cut up some firewood with an electric chain saw. We thought we might help, so we took a look at the saw to see how it works and to understand how we could use it. But we were stopped in our tracks by the warning label on the saw. It said, “Never use near any electrical source or wires.” Now, because this is an electric chain saw that must be plugged into an electrical source by means of wires (an extension cord), we thought that this warning label must have been written during the waning minutes of happy hour at some questionable establishment by an even more questionable human.

But we thought, “Maybe this is an anomaly, and there really are rational instructions for using the saw.” So we decided to look at the instruction manual. There were many warnings about death by electrocution, and many others that make us wonder about humans. “Keep all parts of your body away from the saw chain when the unit is running.” So much for humans calling us “dumb animals.” If they need this kind of warning, perhaps they shouldn’t be using a chain saw at all.

Then there were some “Oh, yeah, right” statements that made us wonder even more. “Inspect extension cords periodically, and if damaged, have repaired by a licensed electrician.” So, if our $14.95 extension cord is damaged (master has cut more than one in half), we should hire an electrician, who charges $85 an hour, to fix it for us.

“Always be aware of what you are doing when using the chain saw.” This makes sense to tell the people who need to be told to keep their body parts away from the moving saw blade. “Well, I declare, Fred. Am I using a chain saw right now or eating ice cream?”

“Always maintain a proper stance.” We do that already, and we’ve never used a chain saw.

“Do not use chain saw if switch does not turn it on and off.” Well, if the switch doesn’t turn it on, I guess we won’t use it.

In spite of these crazed instructions, we were ready to take saw in paw and help cut down some trees. But then we saw the warnings, “Do not operate a chain saw in a tree, on a ladder, or on a scaffold,” and “If the limbs to be pruned are above chest height, hire a professional to perform the pruning.” Since every limb that can be cut is above our chest height, we thought we’d better choose another way to help out.

Maybe we should write Operator’s Manuals.

To Bear, after he has gotten relaxed and gently warmed in front of the heater in the morning. Our master will reach down and start patting Bear on his tummy, and when master feels Bear’s warmth, he will exclaim, “Oh boy! Here’s a hot dog. Where’s the mustard? I’m gonna get me a bun and eat this dog for breakfast!” You can imagine Bear’s stark terror at the prospect of being eaten alive. But master will go on and say, “All right! This dog is cooked. No need for a grill. I’m going for the condiments right now.”

To me, poor Wolf, our cruel master will look meanly at me from across the room and point his finger menacingly and say in a threatening voice, “You’re going down. I’m going to get that dog.” Then he will come over to me and when I roll over in submission, he will say, “I’m going to cut the gizzard out of this dog and eat it raw.” You can imagine our uneasiness living with such threats, especially coming from a man who doesn’t even know that dogs don’t have gizzards.

I might have already told you about cruel master’s fake compliments, such as his favorite: “You dogs are good dogs, ” he will say enthusiastically, and then add, “until you wake up. After that, it’s nonstop iniquity.” This comment has lost all of its freshness, but it still cuts to the bone.

Then, at the slightest provocation, such as a not-so-accurate processed dog food drop, he will rage and scream and demand, “Can you say ‘taxidermy’ Mr. Dog? That’s what’s going to happen to you!” It’s a wonder we can sleep 14 or 18 hours a day. In fact, I’ve worked myself into an anxiety attack just retailing these anecdotes. But the truth will out. Before this, no one knew the dark secrets that take place behind the closed doors of this terror house. But now you know! Chihuahuas of the world, unite!

Bear is taking a rest from his studies about the Shakespeare authorship controversy. He loves conflict!

Here Wolf is just closing the book for a minute so he can thik about the implications of chaos theory.

In actual truth, we are both very quiet and domestic dogs, not much different from the pet at your feet or in your lap right now. We’ve included a couple of candid photos of the two of us relaxing in the evening, taking a brief pause from one of our favorite pastimes, reading ordinary books. As you can see, Bear, the comparative literature major, is keenly interested in the Shakespeare authorship controversy. (Perhaps that’s why he is such a rabble rouser–he likes excitement and controversy.) He enjoys the way the Shakespeare traditionalists and the Oxfordians go at it tooth and nail–in a refined and sophisticated manner, of course–and how the number of candidates continues to expand rather than narrow. I’ll have to ask him to give his opinion about the identity of Jack the Ripper someday. He really enjoys mysteries.

At any rate, Bear doesn’t have a favorite candidate for authorship of Shakespeare’s works at this point. He wavers about whether more than one hand was in the works. He is firmly convinced that the resident of Stratford on Avon was not the real author. However, he won’t admit it to many other dogs, because he knows he would get snubbed by some cute French poodle or English setter.

In Wolf’s candid you can see him thinking about Professor Kellert’s book on chaos theory. Professor Kellert defines chaos theory as “the qualitative study of unstable aperiodic behavior in deterministic nonlinear dynamical systems.” Wolf finds this to be a very sensible definition, differentiating chaotic events from algorithmic outcomes because of the essential unknowability of initial states. Most exciting so far, Wolf says, is the claim that “chaos theory not only argues against the predictability of certain systems, but that when combined with quantum mechanical considerations it leads us to grave doubts about the doctrine of determinism itself.” This claim is shockingly provocative and Wolf can’t wait to read more. Can it be that the unpredictability of initial states–perhaps the choice of initial states–means that free will can be a product of a deterministic system? No wonder Wolf trembles so much.

So you can see we are just ordinary, homebody dogs who enjoy a bit of light reading during those long waits between cookies and meals that our cruel master imposes on us. Yes, it is sometimes difficult to concentrate on the reading when our stomachs are cramping up with hunger. But we do our best. That’s all a dog can do.

Here I am checking the ASIC mounting.

Bear really doesn't know anything about phones. He's just pretending.

“We must decenter the Man,” he says, meaning “the Man” quite literally, as in all humans. “We must problematize the concept of the ‘good and loyal dog’ and delegitimize and master-dog relationship,” he told me. The first step toward the liberation of our imprisoning point of view, he said, is to “penetrate the culture.” And what better way than to take control of the world’s information transmission systems.

Now, of course we don’t want to control the Internet–just yet–so we talked it over and decided that the world’s telephone network was a good place to start. I say “we” because once Bear started to talk about technology–even as vanilla as the telephone–I just had to join him. Something Bear didn’t tell you about me is that I love technology.

For example, in the photo you can see me checking out the surface-mount ASIC (application specific integrated circuit) chip of an encrypting telephone system not very different from those used by members of the CIA, FBI, NSA and the like. Not shown is the AD-DA (analog to digital and digital to analog) converter circuitry.

I have an engineering background with an emphasis on cryptoelectronics, so I can tell you that this particular phone is pretty sophisticated. Oh, the photo of Bear looking at the phone circuitry is just for show. He was merely sniffing around. After all, he’s a lit major.

Bear wants me to rewire the phone so that we can take control of all the other phones in the world and broadcast Bear’s speeches. He says that he will demythologize and deconstruct the rampant notions of the inferiority of Chihuahuas both in relation to humans and as types of dog. His plan to liberate Chihuahuas from the dual oppressors of speciesism and breedism can go forth only after we gain control of the channels of communication.

I’ve already said too much. I’d better go. I just hope I can get this phone put back together. Now where did I put that little screwdriver?

Look at the tight fit here: grinder ring, plate, and swivel lugs.

You can see the toothless Grand Canyon between plate and ring here.

To show you what happens over time to the cheap disposers with the stamped, galvanized steel grinder rings and shredder plate, we first show you what a brand new disposer looks like inside. Notice the nice even teeth around the wall of the unit, and the close fit between the grinder ring and the shredder plate. This fit enables the swivel lugs to push the food particles (including thos chicken bones) right up against the teeth of the grinder ring where the particles are ground into itty bitty pieces. These pieces wash down the drain easily.

Now look at the next photo. You can see that the teeth of the grinder ring have all rusted away, leaving nothing to do the chewing on the waste. Further, the shredder plate has also rusted away at the edges, leaving a huge gap where screechy pieces of bone can lodge and make a dog-distressing hideous noise until someone turns off the disposer.

Note, by the way, how perfect the swivel lugs still look. That’s because they are made of stainless steel. Imagine, then, what this disposer would look like after five years if the grinder ring and the shredder plate were also made of stainless steel.

So, as that auto parts guy used to say in the ad, “It’s a case of pay me now or pay me later.”

We’re not sure if we are going to do many more repairs. Our crule master is threatening to make us mow the lawn, do our own laundry, and wash his car.

Is there no justice?