Ollie’s CV

Note: This is a silly post. It is, however, slightly chuckle-worthy to those who knew Ollie and/or anyone who has ever had a conversation with a dog.

The job candidate at a power lunch (he had water served in a fine, imported plastic bowl.)
The job applicant at a power lunch (he had tap water served in a fine, imported plastic bowl)

Shortly after our arrival in Philadelphia, while procrastinating as I canvassed the city for a job as good as the one I’d left in New York, I decided that Ollie should embark on a career search as well. But first, of course, he’d need a resume.


Of Snausage.  Represent clients in the pet care and luxury pet goods industries, from prestigious doggie store Pooch to ghetto chains like PetSmart. 

Union Leader.  Organize and lead doggie strikes and escapes in response to presence of loud, scary train.  Responsible for overseeing five mutts, two other Wheatens, a drooly St. Bernard, a giant poodle and some cuh-reepy German Shepherds.

Staring Contest Runner-Up.  Participate in and almost win staring contests against world champion pouncer LuLu. 

Champion Pee-er.  Title-holder for “Longest, Most Relieving Pee Ever.”

Valet Visitor.  Made frequent trips (against owners’ recommendations) to four-star hotel’s valet services office in case dry cleaning (spare harness) had arrived.

Marketing Manager.  Serve as representative of soft-coated Wheaten terrier litter born September 2004; responsibilities include acting as cuh-yoot as possible for manipulative purposes, pretending to be perfectly behaved, and drinking special blend of evaporated milk and water. 


DE-PAW COLLEGE, Philadelphia, PA
Concentration in Snausage Studies and Classical Barking.


Emailing; eating Frosty Paws; chewing on expensive shoes; Spanish lessons; reading Snausage Monthly; watching SpongeBob Square Pants(he lives in a pineapple under the sea); playing with Howie, LuLu and Dolly; tug of war; bones.

Contact Information


Ollie’s CV

Tales From the Tundra: Another Nail In the Coffin

In my pre-tundra New York days, visiting one of the city’s bazillion manicure and pedicure providers was a long-standing weekend tradition for my friends and me.  First, we’d meet at the diner on Saturday or Sunday. Then, we’d head to Zen or Pinky or Cindy’s or Trevi or Lincoln Nails, choose from a rainbow array of sheer pink nail polishes with asinine names, make snide comments about the other girls there, and enjoy some hand grooming.  

Please note: regular ‘curing may sound extravagant to those in more remote parts, but in New York, there are nail salons on every corner, and the average manicure costs less than $10.  As it happens, I have extremely dry skin and cuticles, so I view manicuring as a health-related expense. But mostly, it’s a nice way to spend time with my friends and engage in some catty commentary.  

In Michigan, there were no diners and my only friends were Sloth (ex-husband) and Ollie (dognapped Wheaten terrier — see “Meet Ollie” page), neither of whom could be counted on for manicure companionship.  Furthermore, nail care providers in Michigan were much fewer and farther between, more expensive, not as clean, poorer quality, and overall just sucky.  I had to take matters into my own unmanicured hands. 

Unfortunately, the aforementioned unmanicured hands are less than steady, and eventually I had to give up on polished fingernails.  Toes were do-able providing no one looked too closely, but the colors I had with me on the tundra weren’t really foot-appropriate.  There happened to be a respectable-looking beauty supply store in the Colonnade, the “ultra-posh” strip mall across the street from our apartment in the equally “ultra-posh” Briar Cove complex.  Desperate for something to do, I made nail polish selection my official Wednesday errand and looked forward to this important task.

When I hit the beauty supply store, I spent half an hour poring over various shades and brands of wine-colored nail polish before settling on a delightful, deep burgundy hue called “Berry Hard.”

Eagerly, I headed to the cashier and waited for at least 10 minutes while a mohawked hairdresser paid, in pennies, for approximately 40 bottles of shampoo. Just as the transaction seemed to be wrapping up, the hairdresser noticed a mysterious ingredient in the shampoo he was purchasing: placenta. This fascinated him.  He launched into a series of questions about the origins, purpose and effect of “play-say-nta,” as if his upscale clientele in YPSILANTI really gave a shit.

At last it was my turn to pay, and I placed the bottle of “Berry Hard” on the counter with the pride and anticipation of a child who had saved all her life for one toy. 

“Cane I see your lay-cense?,” asked the stylish cashier who had obviously bought her outfit at Forever 21 but told herself she was clad in Prada.
“My license? You need my driver’s license for a $3-bottle of nail polish?”
“No,” replied the cashier. “Don’t you hay-ve your byew-uh-tician lay-cense?”
It was hard to refrain from uttering my Michigan mantra — ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? — but I have to admit, I also felt like a dejected moron. I felt like the whole state had broken me.

 “No ma’am, no I do not. I am not a licensed beautician.” I could barely speak above a whisper. My shame was evident.

“Well then Aim sorry, you cane not shapp in this store. It’s just for the industry.”

Miserable, I walked home and went online to see if there were any other places I might be able to purchase one little bottle of nail polish.  (Keep in mind that while I did have access to a decent CVS, said store did not carry products by Essie, the company that made “Berry Hard.”) It turned out there was another beauty supply store just a short drive away, and they sold “Berry Hard.” Again I found the bottle, caressed it longingly and waited on line to pay. Again I received the news that only lay-censed byew-uh-ticians could dispense cash there. To make matters worse, a lard-ass manicurist at the register next to me was buying several bottles of THE VERY SAME SHADE. It was a cruel trick of the pedicure gods.

There was one more option: a place on the other side of town. 

This time, I didn’t get my hopes up.  Before heading down Nail Polish Row and checking to see if “Berry Hard” was an option, I asked if one had to be a licensed beautician to shop there. It was a question I never in a million years imagined I’d have to utter.

A kindly salesperson replied that the store was open to shoppers of all professions.

“Even out-of-work publicity writers?!”

“Even out-of-work publicity writers.”

 She was like Glynda the Good Witch.  I wanted to hug her. 

At last, “Berry Hard” would be mine.  If only that store SOLD “Berry Hard.”

That night, I relayed the story to Sloth. I hoped he’d be so upset about my trauma that he’d offer to quit his job the next day and move back to civilization pronto.  But he found it rioutously funny.

He was still chuckling a few hours later when I came out of the bathroom sporting two coats of “God Save the Queen’s Nails.”

Tales From the Tundra: Another Nail In the Coffin

Tales From the Tundra: Can’t Get There From Here



You may or may not have picked up on the fact that the six months I spent in Michigan with my ex-husband were not exactly the happiest chunk of my life.  Allow me to put it this way: one year for a human is seven years for a dog.  Similarly, one month in Michigan was an eternity for me.  So as far as I’m concerned, I spent six eternities in that craphole.

There were, of course, a few good things that came from my midwestern experience.  One was Ollie, the ginormous-headed Wheaten terrier we got from a breeder at the cutely named Raisin Tree Farms. Two was the availability of chipatis (pictured above) from Pizza House (conveniently located in both Ann Arbor and East Lansing).  Chipatis are really just shredded salad ingredients in giant pitas, but the accompanying condiment — a mysterious elixir of what I suspect to be salsa and ranch dressing — is dee-licious.  Three was the scrawny and kindly college student at Bed, Bath & Beyond on Washtenaw who suggested I watch a new show called “Family Guy.” But honestly, that’s about all I can say without cursing.

My geographic frustration began right away. I arrived in Michigan from New York at the end of July, and it was already cold.  I felt like a member of the Donner party, realizing too late I wasn’t going to make it — the elements, circumstance and a series of poor decisions would triumph over my will.  On the second day of my creepy new life, I took the Jeep — which, by the way, isn’t the easiest car to drive when you’re five feet, no inches — and decided to seek solace in the extra-wide aisles of the local Meijer (pronounced like “Myer”) superstore. 

I had no idea where anything was, of course, so very logically, I called Meijer to ask for directions.  The conversation went like this.

Hi, I’m coming from the depressing apartment complex on Eisenhower Boulevard.  Can you tell me how to get to your store?

Five-second pause.

WHOO! WHOOOOO BOY. I sher doon’t think I cane. I am so say-ree hon.  I just doon’t noo what to tale you.

Five-second pause on my end due to horrible realization that I now live in Michigan.

Oh. Okay. Well, how did you get to work today? Maybe that will help.

Five-second pause.

WHOO.  Ache-tually, may husbay-nd draped me off on his way to work.

Five-second pause as I see if there’s anything in the car I can use to hang myself at the next light.

Maybe there’s someone else there I could ask for directions?

Five-second pause, then significant volume increase.

HAAAAAAAAAAAAAANK! HANK! HANK! Theers a young lady on the phoon who needs day-rections. Cane you peak up?

Audible clip-clopping.

OOHkay hon. Thay-ts Hank, may husbay-nd. Hay-ng on.


Five-second pause as I process the fact that “Hank” didn’t merely deposit his wife at Meijer and continue on in his American car to another place of employment, but actually works there as well.


Whoo boy! I sher hope Hank cane tell me where the fuck May-er is, or I’m giving up and going to Tear-get.

Tales From the Tundra: Can’t Get There From Here

Wheaten Rescue


A real entry is in the works, I swear!

But for now I wanted to share this photo from today’s New York Post.  Behold Client 9 (aka E. Spitzer) walking his WHEATEN TERRIER, James.  I am not a lawyer, nor do I work for the Department of Social Services or the ASPCA. But I think that if one is a married governor and one is stupid enough to repeatedly patronize an escort service, one should lose the privilege of parenting a dog of this caliber. James cannot possibly be thriving in the tense environment of the Spitzer household, and frankly, I am worried about him.  Who knows what kind of long-term damage the scandal has done to his delicate canine psyche?  Do you really think Silda is thinking about his Snausage intake at a time like this? I do not. Out of the goodness of my heart, I volunteer to be James’ foster mom.

Wheaten Rescue

Special Guest Bloggers: Howie & LuLu


 Greetings from Dallas! I am coming to you live from the gorgeous new abode of my dear friends Dave and Rob, who saved my life in Philadelphia. In honor of my visit, I have invited their Wheaten Terriers Howie and LuLu — my god-dogs — to guest blog. These fuzzy guest bloggers appear above (LuLu is on the left, Howie on the right.) Their spelling isn’t quite at grade-level, so I will translate at the end of the entry.

Deer frendz uv Miz T’s blog hellow

Miz T is viziteeng uss frum noo york and wee ar reel iksytid too see hir! shee yooziz deelishis keelz produkts and wee lik to lick hir fayss.  wee skratcht hir armz wen wee huggd hir sow now shee looks lik uh kuttur.  she brawt ar dadz taystee treets frum noo york and shee sez wee kan hav sum evin iff wee ar not uhlowd. wee got to gow too wuttubergir and wee stuk ar hedz owt thu window then wee peed. yoo kan probublee smell miz t’s unyin breth frum wair yoo ar. miz t will tri to tip mor shee iz tird bekooz hir playn was layt.

Bi Lov Howie and LooLoo 


Dear Friends of Miss T’s blog hello

Miss T is visiting us from New York and we are real excited to see her! She uses delicious Kiehl’s products and we like to lick her face. We scratched her arms when we hugged her so now she looks like a cutter. She brought our dads tasty treats from New York and she says we can have some even if we are not allowed. We got to go to Whattaburger and we stuck our heads out the window then we peed. You can probably smell Miss T’s onion breath from where you are. Miss T will try to type more she is tired because her plane was late.

Bye Love Howie and LuLu

Special Guest Bloggers: Howie & LuLu