Say what?

I'm aghast that the NFL actually allows people to buy a Philadelphia Eagles dog jersey with the infidel Michael Vick's name and number on it. I smell a fatwa coming on ...

With a bullet

We were ready to go. We had the directions to the town-hall meeting and a full gas tank in the ayatollahmobile. We had our megaphone to shout down opposing viewpoints in a display of our First Amendment rights. We had our talking points -- a prepared speech on the necessity of any health-care reform including universal veterinary care as well as medical care for chew toys. (True, the latter point is controversial, but it is necessary; the faster the chew toys get stitched up, the faster we can ravage them again.) Yes, Wendell and I were ready to raise a ruckus at tonight's health-care town hall. Until we realized that Wendell's M60 machine gun wouldn't fit in his car crate. So disappointing ...

The running of the Chihuahuas

I attended my first Chihuahua race over the weekend, my flock. I arose early Saturday morning, eager to see the spectacle of 300 pint-sized canines competing for the regional championship and a shot at the world title. As I pulled into the Petco parking lot in North Dallas, I didn't know what to expect. Would pugs be welcome? Would parimutuel wagering be involved? Would there be a tiny jockey on each Chihuahua? These and many more questions would soon be answered.

The crowd was a diverse mix. Though Chihuahuas were naturally most prevalent, many other breeds turned out to show their support. Camera crews were filming the scene, and a purported celebrity was interviewing the winners of each heat. Competitors came from as far away as St. Joseph, Mo., and San Antonio. I neglected to take my camera to properly document the spectacle, but it looked much like the photo above (from a different race locale).

The races began with the Chihuahuas taking their spots behind the starting gates. Each dog had a two-person team, one to hold the dog until the starting gun, and another to wait at the finish line and cheer the competitor on. Before going to the finish line, the human would often show the Chihuahua something to focus on -- a ball, bone or other trinket to motivate the racer. Most of the dogs zeroed in on the finish line with razor-like focus, eager to sprint toward their human. Unfortunately, that focus waned during the lengthy introduction that preceded each race. The emcee went over each dog's name and shared some key biographical information. And by the time the starting gate was finally raised, roughly two dogs per heat remembered that the finish line was their urgent destination. Others ambled about, sniffing one another, walking sideways and usually eventually finding their way to the finish line. Any dog who could gingerly trot in a straight line was likely to finish in the top 3.

None of the Chihuahuas displayed the lightning speed of my younger brother Wendell. But then again, even human sprinter Usain Bolt couldn't hang with the pup in last summer's Olympics. He is one fast dog. I'm convinced that if Wendell had been allowed to run, he would either finish first or dead last -- he does appear to suffer from attention-deficit disorder. But Wendell is a pug, the elite athlete of the animal kingdom, so obviously it would not be a fair competition.

Some have asked whether the infamous Sister Bella took part in the races. I did encourage her to compete, but she was a no-show on race day. It is probably just as well -- sadly, Bella will probably never outrun her demons.

Dirty humans ...

I was forced to suffer the ultimate indignity today: The humans bathed me. God willing, I will have my revenge with a flatulence-filled night.

Big announcement

The ministry's Voting Rights for Canines movement is pleased to unveil its new official logo. This simple yet powerful image was created by an elite team of canine artists sequestered for the last week in the ministry's basement, a basement so secret that the humans do not even know it exists. Working day and night, with minimal napping, these artists captured the very essence of the canine suffrage movement: "We are dogs. We want to vote. Now feed us."

To visit Voting Rights for Canines' haphazardly organized, Home Depot-esque online gift shop, click here. Custom designs are available.

Obama's real birth certificate

I have made a startling discovery, my flock. A discovery that will shake the very foundations of the human-elected government of the United States. Allow me to explain.

As a founding member of the "birther" movement, I read with great interest about the recent discovery of a genuine Kenyan birth certificate bearing the name of one Barack Hussein Obama. This document was apparently e-mailed to California attorney/dentist/real-estate agent Orly Taitz by a technologically savvy Kenyan prince along with his regularly scheduled multi-million-dollar bank deposit. The Kenyan document certainly looked like a real piece of paper to me, but some questioned its authenticity.

So I began to dig deeper. I searched through the deepest recesses of the ministry's archives, looking for something, anything, to prove that America's democratically elected president was a phony. And then I found it. It seems that President Obama -- or perhaps I should say "Mr. Obama" -- was actually born in the Islamic Canine Republic of Pugistan! This Pugistani document, printed on perfectly preserved crisp white printer paper, offers irrefutable proof that Mr. Obama is not a U.S. citizen. I felt a mix of exhilaration -- over the validation of the sanity of the birther movement despite all previous evidence to the contrary -- and shame -- shame that I was about to depose the first Pugistani to rise to such high office. But the Constitution is the Constitution, and the citizens of the United States deserve to know the truth. So here is Mr. Obama's real birth certificate. (Click the image below to view a larger, more detailed version.)

Happy birthday, Wendell!

The ayatollah compound is in celebration mode, my flock. For today is Wendell's 2nd birthday. I remember well the day mother brought him home. He was tiny, with a bad case of stinky puppy acne. But he deferred to my authority, stayed away from my food bowl and was a good cuddler, so I welcomed him into the compound and embraced my new brother. It wasn't long before his shyness abated and he learned how to play -- one of our favorite games was "Swing the Puppy." Who would have guessed then that he'd someday grow taller than me?

Our celebration began yesterday with a family trip to PetSmart. Wendell and I got some new chew toys, and we also sniffed a hound dog. Then father and I went to the party store next door.

"Can I help you find something?" asked a store clerk.

"I'm looking for party hats, the pointy kind," father answered.

The clerk led us to another aisle. "Are you looking for hats for children or adults?" he asked.

"Um ... actually, for dogs," father answered, suddenly reminded of his status as neighborhood outcast.

The clerk scratched his head.

But as you can see, we found some suitable hats, as well as a pair of 25-cent leis. My flock, few things excite me more than getting leid. Whenever I see father holding a lei, my tail wags wildly in a hula-like rhythm and I run toward him with my head down, eager to put it on. Then I smile widely for several minutes, and nothing, not even a fatwa-violator, can dampen my spirits.

We took our party outside to show off our garb to passing neighbors and let Wendell play with his soccer ball. I also urged the humans to fix that piece of weatherstripping hanging off the door. "What will my blog audience think?" I barked. "It is embarrassing. No wonder you are the neighborhood outcasts."

After some time under the hot Texas sun, we went inside to cool down. I sprawled out on the cool tile while Wendell went to work on his new frozen chew bone. It wasn't long before we were exhausted. Partying, when done properly, can be hard work.

Non-announcement announcement

I've been working on a major project for the ministry, and an announcement may well be coming later today. Stay tuned ...