{"product_id":"what-the-dogs-have-taught-me-isbn-9780812974508","title":"What the Dogs Have Taught Me","description":"Award-winning comedy writer Merrill Markoe, the slightly warped mind behind \u003cb\u003eStupid Pet Tricks\u003c\/b\u003e, is an old hand with dogs. She knows who’s boss (they are) and the myriad ways a loving pet can make you feel guilty twenty-four hours a day. This new edition of Merrill Markoe’s classic collection of humorous essays gives readers the choicest selections along with brand-new material.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn these razor-sharp essays, Markoe recounts her dogs’ phone chats with animal communicators, her search for past lives, and her brief stint as a stun gun saleswoman. She describes the workshop that taught her how to launch an Internet porn business and another that gave proper instruction in the esoteric art of becoming a dominatrix. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe shares insight into what it is like to structure your day using only dog rules, how to spot a really horrible restaurant, and what it’s like to have a romantic dinner with Fabio. There’s even a bright side to preparing for the apocalypse: “At last, it is time to forget about fat grams and low cholesterol.” This enchantingly rambunctious and boundlessly enjoyable book gives you Merrill Markoe at her best. You’ll devour it in one sitting (and so may your pet).Emmy Award-winning writer MERRILL MARKOE has authored three books of humorous essays and the novel \u003ci\u003eIt’s My F---ing Birthday\u003c\/i\u003e, as well as co-authoring with Andy Prieboy the novel T\u003ci\u003ehe Psycho Ex Game\u003c\/i\u003e. She has worked as a radio host and a TV correspondent, and has written for television movies and numerous publications. She lives in Los Angeles.Chapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA Conversation with My Dogs\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt is late afternoon. Seated at my desk, I call for my dogs to join me  in my office. They do.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: The reason I’ve summoned you here today is I really think we should  talk about something.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: What’s that?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: Well, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I get the feeling  you guys think you have to follow me everywhere and I just want you  both to know that you don’t.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStan: Where would you get a feeling like that?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: I get it from the fact that the both of you follow me everywhere  all day long. Like for instance, this morning. We were all together in  the bedroom? Why do you both look blank? Doesn’t this ring a bell at  all? I was on the bed reading the paper . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: Where was I?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: On the floor sleeping.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: On the floor sleepi . . . ? Oh, yes. Right. I remember that. Go on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: So, there came a point where I had to get up and go into the next  room to get a Kleenex. And you both woke up out of a deep sleep to go  with me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStan: Yes. So? What’s the problem?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: We like to watch you get Kleenex. We happen to think it’s  something you do very well.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: The point I’m trying to make is why do you both have to get up out  of a deep sleep to go with me. You sit there staring at me, all  excited, like you think something really good is going to happen. I  feel a lot of pressure to be more entertaining.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: Would it help if we stood?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStan: I think what the lady is saying is that where Kleenex retrieval  is concerned, she’d just as soon we not make the trip.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: Is that true?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: Yes. It is.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob (deeply hurt): Oh, man.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStan: Don’t let her get to you, buddy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: I know I shouldn’t. But it all comes as such a shock.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: I think you may be taking this wrong. It’s not that I don’t like  your company. It’s just that I see no reason for you both to follow me  every time I get up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: What if just one of us goes?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStan: And I don’t suppose that “one of us” would be you?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: Neither of you needs to go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: Okay. Fine. No problem. Get your damn Kleenex alone from now on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: Good.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: I’m just curious. What’s your position on pens?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: Pens?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: Yes. How many of us can wake up out of a deep sleep to watch you  look for a pen?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: Why would either of you want to wake up out of a deep sleep to follow me around while I’m looking for a pen?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStan: Is she serious?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: I can’t tell. She has such a weird sense of humor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: Let’s just level with each other, okay? The real reason you both  follow me every place I go is that you secretly believe there might be  food involved. Isn’t that true? Isn’t that the real reason for the show  of enthusiasm?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStan: Very nice talk.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: The woman has got some mouth on her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: You mean you deny that every time you follow me out of the room  it’s actually because you think we’re stopping for snacks?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: Absolutely false. That is a bald-faced lie. We do it for the life  experience. Period.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStan: And sometimes I think it might work into a game of ball.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: But we certainly don’t expect anything.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStan: We’re way past expecting anything of you. We wouldn’t want you to  overexert yourself in any way. You have to rest and save up all your  strength for all that Kleenex fetching.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: Plus we know it doesn’t concern you in the least that we’re both  starving to death.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStan: We consume on the average about a third of the calories eaten  daily by the typical wasted South American street dog.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: One bowl of food a day is what the vet said I should give you. No  more.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: One bowl of food is a joke. It’s an hors d’oeuvre. It does nothing  but whet my appetite.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: Last summer, before I cut your food down, you were the size and  shape of a hassock.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: Who is she talking to?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStan: You, pal. You looked like a beanbag chair, buddy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: But it was not from overeating. In summer, I retain fluids, that’s  all. I was in very good shape.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStan: For a hippo. I saw you play ball back then. Nice energy. For a  dead guy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: Don’t talk to me about energy. Who singlehandedly ate his way  through the back fence? Not just once but on four separate occasions?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: So you’re the one who did that?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: One who did what?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: Ate through the back fence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: Is there something wrong with the back fence? I have no idea what  happened. Whoever said that is a liar.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStan: The fact remains that we are starving all day long and you  continually torture us by eating right in front of us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: Very nice manners, by the way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: You have the nerve to discuss my manners? Who drinks out of the  toilet and then comes up and kisses me on the face?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: That would be Dave.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: No. That would be you. And while we’re on the subject of manners,  who keeps trying to crawl into the refrigerator? Who always has mud on  their tongue?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStan: Well, that would be Dave.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: Okay. That would be Dave. But the point I’m trying to make is that  where manners are concerned, let’s just say that you don’t catch me  trying to stick my head in your dinner.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: Well, that may be more a function of menu than anything else.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: Which brings me right back to my original point. The two of you do  not have to wake up and offer me fake camaraderie now that you  understand that once a day is all you’re ever going to be fed. Period.  Nonnegotiable. For the rest of your natural lives. And if I want to  play ball, I’ll say so. End of sentence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStan: Well, I see that the nature of these talks has completely broken  down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: I gotta tell you, it hurts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: There’s no reason to have hurt feelings.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStan: Fine. Whatever you say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: I just don’t give a damn anymore. I’m beyond that, quite frankly.  Get your own Kleenex, for all I care.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStan: I feel the same way. Let her go get all the Kleenex and pens she  wants. I couldn’t care less.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: Excellent. Well, I hope we understand each other now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: We do. Why’d you get up? Where are you going?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: Into the next room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStan: Oh. Mm hmm. I see. And why is that?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMe: To get my purse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStan: Hey, fatso, out of my way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: Watch out, asshole. I was first.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStan: The hell you were. I was first.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob: Fuck you. We’re getting her purse, I go first. I’m starving.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStan: You don’t listen at all, do you. Going for pens means food. She  said she’s getting her purse. That means ball.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJust Say, “I Do”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’ve been giving a lot of thought to the idea of getting married  lately. Ever since President Bush decided to go out on a limb and give  “marriage” his ringing endorsement, thereby proposing another  forward-thinking political initiative on behalf of the Republican party  that may at long last lay the groundwork for a full slate of all the  other things your mother always told you to do, such as getting the  hair out of your eyes, standing up straight, changing your tone of  voice when you talk to me, and not leaving the house looking like that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBush’s real agenda, of course, is to address the considerable pressure  being applied by conservative religious organizations to back a  constitutional amendment banning same-sex marriage. Opponents of  same-sex marriage like to cite the ability to have children as the  significant line of demarcation between a real marriage and a  fraudulent same-sex facsimile. However, in making this case, they  conveniently forget to mention some of “real marriage”’s famous  offspring—for example, Adolf Hitler, Jeffrey Dahmer, the Enron guys,  and the terrorists who engineered 9\/11.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStatistically speaking, gay marriage stands alone as the last outpost  of marriage’s most pristine ideals, since same-sex couples are the only  ones whose marital track records are untarnished. If we are going to  question the validity of these marriages, then that proposed  constitutional amendment ought to also contain a subclause restricting  certain heterosexual unions that have, in the fullness of time, proven  to be totally futile. For instance, the marriages of movie stars to  anyone, straight or gay, especially if they have participated in a  People magazine article in which they have declared that they are “very  much in love.” Or weddings involving people under twenty-eight who have  known each other for less than a year and intend to say their vows  while wearing a parachute, scuba gear, or anything else that celebrates  their hobbies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn fact, when you look at the big picture, it is easy to conclude that  the best thing for our culture might be to just give marriage to gay  people and let them refurbish it the way they do run-down  neighborhoods. Once they have restored it to its original authentic  beauty, plus added all the modern upgrades, heterosexuals can be  permitted to return to it and continue their pattern of systematic  debasement.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut here’s the part about the whole issue of who can get married and  who cannot that really has me puzzled. Back in February, when San  Francisco mayor Gavin Newsom started issuing marriage licenses to  same-sex partners, 3,000 gay couples rushed to the altar. That’s 6,000  adults who couldn’t wait another minute for the opportunity to be  eligible to sue each other over common property, pay alimony, and take  out mutual restraining orders. And that’s what I found unsettling. Not  because the idea of gay marriage gives me pause, but precisely because  the only marriage I seem to have a real problem with is my own. As a  certified straight person (and yes, I did take the trouble to become  certified), I have been legally entitled to get married for over four  decades. Yet never once have I been able to motivate myself  sufficiently to push a relationship further in that direction. Although  I have been much live-togethered, I have never walked down an aisle  that doesn’t have something I need that is on sale.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt isn’t because I haven’t had access to successful relationships. For  the past three years, I have been in a really good one, perhaps my best  ever. In it, not only have I learned to talk through disagreements  instead of driving around for hours in my car with a packed suitcase,  but have gazed with astonishment at my partner as he actually listened  when I talked. I even have proof: I have given him a number of pop  quizzes. And still I remain the quiet calm spot in a tornado of peer  group weddings, the only person who has never made all her friends  shell out money to buy her china and silver and matching flatware and  therefore does not yet have any of the aforementioned and is frankly a  little pissed off about the whole thing. Especially when I add it all  up and realize I have paid for so many sets of other people’s pricey  wedding-registry china that I could easily host a dinner for the entire  State Department if I could stand to be in their presence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh, sure, the first guy I lived with played the marriage card during  our breakup, in one of those desperate eleventh-inning maneuvers that I  never fall for because they remind me of nothing so much as an evening  of avant-garde theater. And the next guy and I actually once went and  had premarital blood tests. But I think it was because he just liked  going to the doctor. In his perfect world, a marriage license would  also have required a brain scan, an electrocardiogram, and a  sphygmomanometer reading.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe key point here is that it wasn’t as if I were the poor little wan  and weeping thing who was left at the altar, or the frail victim of  heartless commitment-phobic womanizers. Although, of course, I have  enjoyed the company of such men on many delightful occasions. No, I had  no intention of ever marrying any of the guys I have loved. I’ve never  even had a fantasy about how my wedding would be. Occasionally I would  want the men who claimed to love me to say that they would like to  marry me, but that was really an exercise in positive reinforcement,  like when you make someone tell you over and over they don’t think you  look fat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen my father was dying, I asked him what he considered the biggest  success in his life. When, without hesitation, he answered, “My  marriage,” it made me wonder for a moment if he was a closet  polygamist. Because the marriage I saw him in was one that sounded like  this: “I said I love you. Now what the hell else do you want from me,  for Chrissakes?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn a related topic, not long ago I was reading through my childhood  diaries and I found that as early as fifth grade I wrote, “I am never  getting married. I am never having kids.” Of course, a couple of pages  later I also wrote, “I am never having my period.” Apparently I had the  foresight to rethink that one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo why, then, when I attended someone’s wedding recently and the bride  threw the bouquet to me, did I turn and duck so it bounced off my  shoulder? Why does the idea of announcing to the world in a ceremony  that you belong to someone and they to you, forever and ever, give me  the feeling that I am tied to a chair in a windowless room, unable to  reach the phone to find the number of Rush Limbaugh’s doctor and beg  him to prescribe me some of that OxyContin? The craziest part of it all  is that I like the idea of being in a monogamous relationship with  someone I love. And when I’m in one, I do my best to make the object of  my affections happy. I have even been known to take a Vivarin at  midnight in order to cook and serve dinner at three a.m., when my  beloved shows up and is hungry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich is why I find myself wondering: What do those 6,000 gay people in  San Francisco have in their hearts that I don’t have in mine, besides  an obsession with Barbra Streisand? What do they and all the much  married people of America all know about love that I have yet to  comprehend?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut then, as soon as I find myself getting wrapped up in romanticizing,  I begin to think: If other people have so much more emotional depth  than I do, why are there so many marriages that last only a few months?  Or marriages where the sex has been dead for decades? Why is there so  much cheating and complaining, so many vile divorce-related postmarital  lawsuits where both people are trying not only to rob each other of  everything they own, but also to impose stiff penalties for having been  stupid enough to agree to the marriage in the first place? Why are  there women who marry one violence-prone alcoholic, or drug addict, or  pedophile after another? What rational justification can there be for  the marital track records of an Elizabeth Taylor or a Liza Minnelli?  And when I think about all that, I wind up right back where I started.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich brings me to the only solution to my dilemma that I can think of.  If I could get George Bush and his band of goofballs to pass a  constitutional amendment prohibiting me from getting married, I feel  fairly certain there would be nothing that could keep me from insisting  on getting married as soon as possible. Suddenly, like all those  marriage-hungry couples of the gay community, I would find there was  nothing I could imagine wanting more.Author of It's My F---ing Birthday and The Psycho Ex Game; The best of the acclaimed collection, with additional favorites and all-new material","brand":"Villard","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304617332965,"sku":"NP9780812974508","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780812974508.jpg?v=1767743886","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/what-the-dogs-have-taught-me-isbn-9780812974508","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}