Things We Should've Learned From WE3

I utterly adore this article (h/t Jane Carnall).  Cats might be smarter than dogs, but no-one can tell because they're such colossal arseholes they defy analysis.

I know more than a few academics who have the same problem, of course. I wonder how many studies have been performed on them have had to be abandoned because the test subjects were just too unbearably prickish to allow the experiment to continue and/or immediately attempted to seize control of the experiment to further their own lunatic theories.

Cats and academics both make for terrible people.

(It's interesting that they've shown dogs understand finger-pointing, though.  None of the canids my parents have brought home have ever managed that.  Mind you, old English sheepdogs can be painfully obtuse animals, so our anecdotal evidence should be viewed with caution).

Postcards From The Front

Merry Christmas from all here at Squid Towers. May your festive doggies be bright of coat and mischievous of temperament.

This Will Get Me A Thousand Hits Minimum

Because who am I kidding, y'all are here for the cute animals.  This here is my parents Old English Sheepdog, Molly.  The voice on the video is my father, demonstrating the power of positive reinforcement.  Which, considering last time they played together she ran into his leg so hard he was on crutches for weeks, is actually pretty good of him.

Further delightful images.

Greatest dog alive.

Swords Are Not The Only Storm

It's been a pretty horrible day over at Casa del Calamari, so here's something delightful, a small moment of joy amidst the rubble in Oklahoma City.




Speaking of the tornado, one side-effect of the disaster is the sudden pressure on representatives of Oklahoma over in DC to try and acquire federal relief.  Just one problem, of course, they just couldn't shut themselves up at Christmas about how federal relief for Hurricane Sandy was a waste of money.

Tough spot, right?  What do you do?  Do you stick to your principles and insist poor Oklahomans should be just as utterly fucked as poor New Yorkers, because there's only enough money left in the budget to bomb Iran?  Or do you spray out the most obvious bullshit conceivable so as to argue disaster relief is fine so long as is for a state without a coastline?

Right now the score is tied at one all.  Which of Inhofe and Cockburn are most deserving of your disgust is a decision each of you can make for yourselves.

Dog Bites Man (But Was Aiming For Bacon Butty)

Via Balloon Juice, important new research has been revealed to the public in the field of studying doggies:

The dogs that are most bonded to their owners turn out to be most likely to observe their owner in order to steal food.

This reminds me of something an old colleague of mine - a Russian mathematician, with all that implies - used to say: "This is not only obvious, it is possible to prove."

Or, as someone once put it:

Dilemma

I'm really not sure how to feel about this. On the one hand, this is clearly despicable propaganda assembled by the dog-hating forces of naughtiness, who would have us believe the rules of human society can hold these magnificent canine specimens as they stand over our civilisation like colossi, and occasionally lick their balls.

On the other hand, them doggies sure is cute.

There's one for cats, too, obviously, but this too is propaganda, merely in the other direction.  A site showing real feline criminals would look much more like this:

When Dogs Are Gorgeous

Excited puppy dogs, it turns out, can be damn hard to pin down on camera.

After a great deal of trial and error, though, I can reveal the true unbearable cuteness of Molly the dog.

Introducing...

It has been decided by the upper echelons of the clan that it's time for a new doggy.  Behold Molly, slayer of rabbits!

(Top left: Spacesquid Senior.)

I'll see if I can get some action shots when I meet Molly next week.  Hopefully none of them will involve her pissing on my shoes, but we'll just have to see.

Every Dog Has His Election Day

What intelligent mind could not fail to be delighted at the news that leftist dogs, tired perhaps of the endless foolishness of their Virginia masters, have finally chosen to take matters into their own paws?  The surrounding humans may think they have stymied this glorious push towards the socialist utopia by barring the list of dogs given on the website, but they have been PLAYED FOR FOOLS!

The real leftist dogs, the true rousers of the canine rabble, are shown below.  Soon, America, there will be none amongst you who know not their names, save those whose deaths are too quick for grim realisation to dawn.  Allow me to introduce you to:

Karl Barx:

 "Private property has made us so stupid and partial
that an object is only ours when we play fetch with it."

Che Gruffvara:

"The life of a single dog is worth a million times more
than all the dog biscuits of the richest man on Earth."

Fido Castro:

"A revolution is a fight to the death
between the future and the cats."

and Leon Terrierotsky:

"The life of a revolutionary would be quite impossible
without a certain amount of walkies."

plus, obviously:

Bo Obama, secret Communist doggy of the secret Communist Muslim.

Mend your ways, America, before it's too late.  Your dogs are watching you.

You have been warned...

Dogstractions

"My fellow Americans!  Er... woof!"

Kevin Drum had unearthed fascinating new evidence about how dogs are cute and no-one gives a shit about cats!  My jaw, it is entirely un-dropped.

It's an interesting idea though; bring the doggies out to keep everyone entertained whilst you're trying to cover up an illicit affair, or Watergate, or something.  Maybe if Checkers had been more photogenic Ford would never have ended up with the Oval.

I also adore this line:

We surmise that diversionary pets are a political liability when their frolicking on the White House lawn in hard times might cue the public that not everyone in the country is suffering equally and that being president is not a full-time job 

Because nothing could trouble the proles more than learning that the obscenely powerful, opulence-hoarding White House occupants also keep a dog.  Like this guy:

They won't even have to share a sausage!  There's one each!  Bet he's an immigrant...

Last Night Something Pretty Bad Happened...

We lost a dog.

Sometimes cancer is a horrible malingering presence, slicing off the pieces of a loved one until there's nothing left but a shivering nub, alive in spite of itself.  Other times, it rips through someone so quickly that you still haven't processed its arrival by the time it's already gone, having torn out something irreplaceable along the way.

So it was with Storm, who went from dozing contently in shafts of sunlight to passing away on the operating table in less than a fortnight.  She could have kept fighting, sitting immobile for months on end as the vets fought to save the front half of her body, but we decided she deserved better than that.  A dog who uses her front paws to signal her love and need to be loved should not have to learn to live without them, especially since the exchange of limbs for a few more months of life was a gamble no sensible haunter of Vegas casinos would have taken.

What does one say about The First Dog?  Some experiences cannot be repeated, not really.  We like to pretend they can - that's why we have alcohol - but twelve and a half years after she first bounded into our lives, all nervous barks and melodramatic sighs, there is now just Storm, and every other dog.

Some people thought Storm an unintelligent dog.  To be sure, she frequently gave that impression.  Once upon a time she would stare in incomprehension as her adopted brother Josh (another Old English Sheepdog, who preceded her in crossing over to the Land of Infinite Milkbones) would show her how to open doors.  She never did work it out.  Just recently she adopted the habit of deliberately trapping her head behind my father's chair, forcing him to move it so she could pass, despite quicker and father-free alternative routes available.

I never thought she was stupid, though.  She was just exceptionally good at tactical thinking.  Why walk quietly into the front room when you could force others to move aside, demonstrating your superiority?  It takes a supremely superior canine mind to develop a bark that clearly expresses "I don't want this toast unless you put some scrambled egg on it, humans."  Put simply, Storm was as smart as she needed to be to have everyone else do things for her.  Like Paris Hilton only, you know, of some worth.

We gave Storm, I hope, a very happy decade and a quarter.  In return, she gave us what a dog gives.  If you've experienced it, no description is necessary.  If you haven't, no description will suffice.

Sleep well, Storm.  We loved you a great deal.

Storm "Stormy Dog" Crossman 1999 -2012

Taking The... Redux

I see dogs and urine are once again in the news (clearly this is a combination with potential).  This time round, it's because the study of doggy wee has led to breakthroughs in the understanding of human kidney behaviour, which in turn has helped out with regard to type 2 diabetes.

Much as I love our canine companions, of course, can I just mention how depressing it is to realise the nine months I've spent trying to smash a huge data set into shape so as to detect the effects of new diabetes treatments has turned out to have been less use than a dog pissing into a bottle?

Research fellows: for when no dog is available, or none of those nearby fancy emptying their bladders.

Li'l Ludo Is Also An Option

News that there's a Labyrinth comic book prequel in the works is nothing to be sniffed at, obviously, but two important questions spring immediately to mind. 

First: isn't the whole idea of a prequel to that film kind of missing the point?  Given that the crux of it is that it doesn't really matter whether Sarah's adventure was real or not, so much as the process of going through it?  And even if it was real, the power of the central metaphor is sufficiently strong that I'd be leery of trying anything else with the franchise once that idea is excised.

Secondly, and far more importantly, if you're going to do a Labyrinth prequel, why in the name of all that's holy are you basing it around Jareth, and not Sir Didymus.

Here, let me show you how awesome that would be:

Plus, you get to call it "The Adventures of Diddy Sir Didymus."

You're welcome.

Booze Hound

As something of a left-field but certainly not unappreciated Christmas present, the Other Half has chosen to pass to me full responsibility for the world's shiniest canine polymath, Professor Steeldog.

That photo was taken during Professor Steeldog's inaugural lecture "Scrambled Eggs Are Delicious".  Note that the professor is delivering his talk whilst simultaneously preparing scrambled eggs as an after-lecture snack, and whilst powered by a bottle of Blaxland Estate Shiraz.  That's not really all that much for a proper academic, actually, but then he's a very small dog, and allowances must be made.

Besides, see how sad he looks once the plonk has gone:

In fairness, the bitter horror of rapidly coalescing reality isn't the only reason for his shrinking posture.  Steeldog's lecture has started off a veritable intellectual shit-storm, and both Professors Ironcat and Vanadiumsquirrel-Smith are on the warpath.  It's tough being a drunken carnivore trying to justify high cholesterol breakfast snacks.

Fortunately, Professor Steeldog has a secondary career to fall back on, as a cybernetic battlesuit.

Unstoppable war-suit modelled by Misty the dog.

Oil-Dogs

I've finally gotten around to taking a photo of the oil painting I commissioned for The Other Half's birthday.  This is her bearded collie, Star (technically Woodland Star, since he's a pedigree, and therefore is required to have a stupid name). 

I'm immensely happy with this; it captures Star's personality very well.  Anyone who's looking to get a pet (or a landscape) painted for them might want to check out Isabel Clarke's home page. (Try to avoid the stuff on her politics, though...)

Ursine Undone!

This is something you don't see every day.  Though you should, obviously.  Let all dangerous and voracious predators be warned: come at our dogs, and we will fuck you up.

Artist's impression



Boxing Stupid

Whilst I was at large in Eastern Europe, my old friend Rigor Mortified (a veterinary nurse) told me a story that was just too funny not to steal, especially given this blog's unflinching pro-dog standpoint.

On one fateful day, RM is late into her shift when a large Geordie man enters her field of vision carrying a shoe-box.
"Weeya tak a luke at me puppy, like?" he asks.
"What?" responds RM.
"Me puppy.  Weeya tak a luke?" says the man, holding out the box.
"Um... OK" RM says slowly, eyeing the box with suspicion.  "What's wrong with your puppy?"
"It dinna eat," the man says. "An' dinna play. Willna gan fer a walk.  Two hundred quid ah paid fer this puppy. Pure breed, ah gat told."
"Right", says RM.  "A pure breed what?"
"A pure breed puppy," the man insists. "Rottweiler."
By now RM is thoroughly doubtful.  "You have a rottweiler puppy?"
"Aye."
"That cost two hundred quid?"
"Aye."
"In that rather small shoebox?"
"Aye, pet."
This, needless to say, is not good news.  Whatever else might be wrong with this poor creature, the fact it can fit into such a small space is clearly cause for concern in itself.  Not entirely sure she wants to see what pathetic creature awaits her within, RM takes the box gingerly, and opens the lid.

Deep Thought

You know you've diverged significantly from the rest of humanity when you walk happily by a large crowd of people hungrily taking in a police team and film crew in the middle of a drugs bust, but stop just after the press has passed when you realise that's the best place to watch the police doggies.

In my defense, German Shepherds are even cooler in their namesake country.

There's also some fun to be had running German spell checks on these posts, just to see which words exist in German too.

But back to work, I think.  I'm in the process of achieving my ultimate dream and actually putting together a coherent example of New Maths which takes the X-Men as a data set.  Nerdvana attained!

I'd Genuinely Rather Just Hear Them Barking

Back in February I complained about "OK Go Syndrome", a hideous disease that strikes bands down in their prime (well, "prime") following a hit video and forces them to care more and more about the visuals and less and less about the accompanying, y'know, song.

Can I just say: case closed.



Seriously, I saw this video for the first time ninety minutes ago, and already I can't remember a single lyric, note or beat. At all. All I remember is a whole bunch of doggies doing lovely doggy things (though the band has gotten to the point where they can't manage single-take, single-camera routines anymore; what is it they say about working with children and animals?)

So, yeah, the disease is presumably entering its final stages. Still, doggies!

Pity These Poor Dumb Animals

Via Balloon Juice, a fascinating article from the Boston Sunday Globe on the theory that what made humanity so successful wasn't simply our ability to craft tools, but in the inventive ways we made use of animals - both as food sources and as "living tools". To a layman like me it seems like a fairly compelling case.

Obviously, though, I'm biased, since I'm automatically sympathetic to any theory arguing that people who don't like dogs are objectively my genetic inferiors.