Animals belonging to the family Canidae, or the sub-family Caninae, or the genus Canis; as in NotCho Dawg. Otherwise known as my dawg. NotCho Dawg arrived two years ago. He is my first dog. Now at 55, I missed out on that kid-dawg experience as a child. Mom said No Way. No Pets! Bless her heart. She had enough to deal with. And dealt well, she did.

Finally, as an adult, I can call the shots now, so long as The wife is accepting, coerced or effectively deceived. Speaking of deception, when I pass, I sure hope The wife does not sell my system for less than 3 times what I told her I have in it. Ouch! Maybe time to amend the will?

Before NotCho Dawg, about the only thing that annoyed me more than pet owners who never stop telling cutesy little stories about their pooches, kitties, lop-eared rabbits, ferrets, you name it, they got it pets, was the ominous, pent up with unfulfilled nicotine withdrawal, ready to lecture you till Hell freezes over, ex-smoker. And yes, I still smoke. But here is some advice, never say never. And anyway, I have a caveat. These aren’t my stories. They’re from The Spectator, a weekly British magazine first published on 6 July 1828 and still in publication today. The stories are submitted by the readers. What I find most pleasing is that they are from the 1890’s and filled with all the charm and linguistic aptitude and elegance so painfully missing in today’s shorthand ‘texting’ & emailing vernacular. The compositions themselves are pure art form that would have my 9th grade English teacher brimming from ear to ear if she knew this day in the future, I final ‘got it’.

So for those so inclined, here is a link to Dog Stories from the "Spectator" being anecdotes of the intelligence, reasoning power, affection and sympathy of dogs, selected from the correspondence columns of "The Spectator"

They are part of the wonderful bounty found at Internet Archive

I imagine when your wealthy and retired you would have the luxury of spending all the time here that it deserves.

No, you don’t get off that easy. You must suffer my favorite two letters I pasted below because they are the basis of this entire rambling. Of course, by now you have probably skipped this whole post.

THE DOG THAT BURIED THE FROGS.

Feb. 2, 1895. (date Published)

(submitted by) R. ACLAND-TROYTE

Knowing your love of animals, and the interest so often shown in your columns in their ways, I venture to send you the following story I have lately heard from an eye-witness, and to ask whether you or any of your readers can throw any light upon the dog's probable object. The dog in question was a Scotch terrier. He was one day observed to appear from a corner of the garden carrying in his mouth, very gently and tenderly, a live frog. He proceeded to lay the frog down upon a flower-bed, and at once began to dig a hole in the earth, keeping one eye upon the frog to see that it did not escape. If it went more than a few feet from him, he fetched it back, and then continued his work. Having dug the hole a certain depth, he then laid the frog, still alive, at the bottom of it, and promptly scratched the loose earth back into the hole, and friend froggy was buried alive! The dog then went off to the corner of the garden, and returned with another frog, which he treated in the same way. This occurred on more than one occasion; in fact, as often as he could find frogs he occupied himself in burying them alive. Now dogs generally have some reason for what they do. What can have been a dog's reason for burying frogs alive? It does not appear that he ever dug them up again to provide himself with a meal. If, sir, you or any of your readers can throw any light on this curious, and for the frogs most uncomfortable, behaviour of my friend's Scotch terrier, I should be very much obliged.

AN EXPLANATION.

Feb. 9, 1895. (date Published)

(Submitted by) FRANCES POWER COBBE

I think I can explain the puzzle of the Scotch terrier and his interment of the frogs, for the satisfaction of your correspondent. A friend of mine had once a retriever who was stung by a bee, and ever afterwards, when the dog found a bee near the ground, she stamped on it, and then scraped earth over it and buried it effectually--presumably to put an end to the danger of further stings. In like manner, another dog having bitten a toad, showed every sign of having found the mouthful to the last degree unpleasant. Probably Mr. Acland-Troyte's dog had, in the same way, bitten a toad, and conceived henceforth that he rendered public service by putting every toad-like creature he saw carefully and gingerly "out of harm's way," underground.

A great number of the buryings and other odd tricks of dogs must, however, I am sure, be considered as Atavism, and traced to the instincts bequeathed by their remote progenitors when yet "wild in the woods the noble ‘beastie’ ran." Such, I believe, is generally admitted to be the explanation of the universal habit of every dog before lying down to turn round two or three times and scratch its intending bed--even when that bed is of the softest woollen or silk--apparently to ascertain that no snakes or thorns lurk in its sleeping-place.

Did you catch that? I need to quote that one more time:

“…and conceived henceforth that he rendered public service by putting every toad-like creature he saw carefully and gingerly "out of harm's way," underground.”

Altruism with intent in a dawg? I mean really? Mr. Cobbe is suggesting these furry, cross-bread descendants of wolves are capable of what is considered a trait that sets man above and beyond all other animals. The ability for self sacrifice is not to be taken for granted. Perhaps the good Mr. Cobbe had been partaking a bit too liberally of the absinthe? If you have ever had a dawg, you won’t argue with Mr. Cobbe. You have seen it.

And now we come to the essence of this babble of mine. It seems Mr. Cobbe is as learned as he is articulate. Atavism? The tendency to revert to ancestral type. It’s why you could be born with a tail. Your ancestors had them. You have one when in the womb. Hopefully, it goes away. And Scaramanga’s superfluous third nipple? Same thing. You remember him, the ‘Man with the Golden Gun’. Every once in a while, DNA short circuits, it still remembers where we came from. Like our hypothalamus and basal ganglia. Our so called lizard brain. It regulates our breathing (good thing to do, imagine having to remember to breath all day long) sleep and wake cycles, eating and drinking, hormone release, and other critical biological functions. Our lizard brain gives us the luxury of time to think. Time to listen. To evolve, as it were.

Speaking of Atavism, it is the fifth studio album released in 2005 by the American heavy metal band Slough Feg (formerly The Lord Weird Slough Feg). A vinyl edition was also produced by Forest Moon Special Products in a limited print of 500. I guess these kids had some dormant analog genes that somehow became dominant.

And so it is, that we, when we do our dance around our turntables, carefully unsheathe and clean our black disc then gently place it on the platter, deftly lower the stylus after having inspected for snakes & thorns, we too can rest. And be at peace as the Atavistic tail of analog returns to wag the dawg in us.