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Jan 29, 2025
Yes, Bipeds. You read it right, or heard it right. ‘Tis my last missive from this staggeringly moribund town. Should I ever need a metaphor for tedium and melancholy, this town shall suffice.
Honor this senior, this cancer-surviving dog, and read my last missive. It is all I have left to bequeath you.
I must confess Bipeds, there is a spot within me what celebrates this paltry story board and the modicum of fame bestowed upon me and Chez Salty. I further confess I shan’t miss the endless drama and arguments from the stunted Biped brain stems what have bestowed ruinage on this page and my town.
Have you not heard of a literate dog, Bipeds? Consider yourself introduced. And just to be crystal clear, I regard the Bravo Network as less than a fungus on the antennae of a brain-dead, juvenile Sea Squirt in Hades.
It is important to me that I made such clear to you.
****
The rumors are true. My physical maladies are are grave. It is as though my body parts are failing and falling off sequentially. Don and Liana do what they can to assuage and repair me, but the writing is on the wall. And it is plain in their faces, and in their over-kind assurances.
Understand, I had an excess of tumors and malignancies removed from my warm, living body several times in the near past. My once-solid legs have failed me. And there is my total deafness coupled with the the loss of sight in my left eye.
I can fight it no longer. The demands of writing this dispatch have eclipsed my physical abilities. Of that I am sure, and I fear I would end my celebrated career as a wash-out, or worse, a sell-out.
Whereas Beethoven was as deaf as a block of frozen fish when he composed his most distinguished works, the loss of sight in my left eye precludes me from using the keyboard efficiently. I am left correcting seemingly endless typing errors, or “typos.” With this, I am irritated to no end, and fraught with relentless self-recrimination.
Yet I shall not exit the very forum I masterminded by burying myself under a refuse pile of increasingly mediocre commercialization like a canine “Sting” and his blandly conjured Blue Turtles. I shall go out on top of my game like a Hemingway or Cobain, sans shotgun.
You may think of me what you will for that comparison, but I will be waiting for you in hell, Bipeds. Like every dog you have had to “let go,” I shall be judging you upon your arrival.
May 22nd, 2012. It’s Not a K9 Crooked House, It’s a K9 Crooked Home.
That is the date and title of my publishing debut. Granted, it is not Hobbes “The Elements of Law,” and it was definitely not a piece of journalism or literature. It was indisputably a commercial hawking from Don to sell, or as he would say, “raise awareness of” our Crooked K-9 dog houses for sale.
I confess Max and I shared the piece, and my voice was extremely primitive to what you read today, but I was a mere pup. I look back upon this innocent effort fondly.
Our early missives were dedicated to hard work, community, and charity. There are numerous pieces devoted to The Mutt Scrub, Deb’s Used Tennis Balls, and the importance of supporting our local traditions like Fisherman’s Festival. None of these pieces stand the test of time except Deb’s Used Tennis Balls.
I confess my subject matter became rather tedious and predictable for a dog with my intellectual sweep. And so I began having fun with the venue. I introduced humorously-taunting little bits regarding our personal summer guests- Fall-Down, Clean Up, and to the wider topic of the Boothbay Region’s summer visitors, Break Away From Being ‘From Away’, and From-Away Rube to a Boothbay Region Ruby.
Even Coal and Buddy wrote a few dispatches in this early time. None were particularly engaging or memorable. Perhaps I’m being too hard. Coal’s Zombie Class was a trite dawdle surrounding Coal’s hatred of Zombies what yielded several chuckles if you knew the placid nature of Coal.
Despite a mere glint of talent, it was clear to me that Coal and Buddy were destined for mere filler, and a vehicle to allow the real talent to regroup their wits until the next product of genius was required.
Heaven, Earth, and Hell be damned! Those three of my dispatches from this time still make me laugh! What a rapscallion I was! I remember every moment, and even now I can taste the impudent sarcasm dripping off my every word.
I concede that I read and re-read these pieces after publication with an eye focused upon my impending greatness.
Max began the same as I, advertising various shop and town-related interests and events. Then he discovered his voice and produced the enormously entertaining piece, How to Get More Food if You Love Food.
How this old cur loves reading that one over and over!
****
At this time, us Chez Salty Dogs were often referred to as the Beatles. Scroll up to the Easter picture above if you doubt what I write here. Of course Max and I functioned as Lennon and McCartney. Big Dumb Buddy was most definitely Ringo. That left Coal as George Harrison. I believe it is an apt comparison inasmuch as Coal was a quiet dog who grew into his talents like Mr. Harrison and produced some great pieces.
Coal’s Seventeen Messes in May, was a surprising masterpiece. It is completely true and describes with objective clarity a situation rapidly cascading out of Don’s control. The same is true of The Breakfasts and the Dogmanity, where Don starved us dogs on a mere whim. It is apparent Coal possessed a journalist’s innate ability to remove his emotions from the story in order to construct an unparalleled objective narrative.
Coal succumbed to liver cancer in July of 2016. All of Chez Salty was aggrieved for what seemed ever. What a shame fate cut Coal down at a mere thirteen years! He might have produced some very significant and critically-acclaimed pieces had he lived a mere year longer.
Don’s grief brought him into the Chez Salty writing circle with his tribute to his old Fetch Dog, Coal. I must admit this was directly from Don’s rarely seen heart. It still resonates and brings a tear to this old stalwart’s eyes. Coal’s eulogy set the precedent for Don to write eulogies for every Salty Dog passed on to the Great Black Dog; a task none wanted, but all needed.
****
Big Dumb Buddy was a delightful surprise! He worked thrice as hard as the rest of us and produced some memorable pieces. The old galoot had a simple, lovable, innocent style that was his signature. During this period he wrote a truly bizarre piece called Beastie Creatures. The nearest I can figure is that only Buddy could see the invisible creatures in the wildly popular Pokeman Go game. Then he wrote Big Dumb People, where he was terrorized by a crazy lady in the shop for being itchy.
And do not cast aspersions regarding my use of “Big Dumb Buddy.” He was indeed all three of those words. And he was my brother. Not yours.
****
Perhaps my own favorite personal creation at this time is Nine Questions to Not Ask Don or Dog. It brought scores of laughing local Bipeds into the shop and has endured the ages. Long-time customers routinely regale Don with the greeting, “Can I use your bathroom?” to which Don replies, “Not unless you’re a relative of mine or have a gun.” Is not that just a little wicked and amusing?
Critics and scholars alike describe this era as Chez Salty’s Golden Age- often compared to The Golden Age of Pericles and the Pax Romana. Allow me to address the contributions one by one. Any other way would be just a dreadful mess.
Even Ringo Starr had hits like “It Don’t Come Easy,” and “No No Song.” True to the Ringo Starr comparison, Buddy was not idle during The Golden Age. Nay! He wrote the amazingly humorous and practical, How to Get Don Up for Breakfast. But Buddy’s swan song was his genius, poignant, real-life story Abandoned. I must admit I love this real-life story of him abandoned when Don and Liana closed up the Southport cabin for the winter of 2018. I think of him whenever the cabin is opened or closed.
Big Dumb Buddy passed on May 2021. Don wrote his second dog eulogy for Big Dumb Buddy on June 1. Whereas Don’s first eulogy to Coal seemed a bit, dare I say, frantic and hurried, I felt Don hit the right balance of humor, reverence and sadness in this tribute to the Family Budster despite Don taking less time to produce it.
****
Max ascended to be the best writer of the Chez Salty pack during this Golden Age. Despite being a constant thorn in my side and our confrontational nature, I have to admit Max was consistently an entertaining read.
He produced comedic genius pieces like Don Sure is Getting Old and Fat. But the old man’s legacy is solidly entrenched in his septem libri seriei – The Day of the Dogs. Or Dies Canum, whilst I still have Google Translate open. Max wrote a complete book from seven of his blogs. The book had an actual plot, and it featured us Chez Salty Dogs and our friends. It denigrated Don, and it was a triumph! The resulting book is here.
How I envied the Old Man for that!
****
This was indeed a Golden Age. It all seemed so effortless.
Vast reams of writing flowed from my paws. Wonderful ideas for blogs flitted in and out of my mind so fast I could not write them down. I never felt compelled to write before, yet write I did. It was not so much a Chez Salty Golden Age as it was the Age of Augustus.
I am proud to say I set off the Golden Age with a compelling true story – A Spike in Kamikaze Attacks, where I was viciously attacked at Doggy Daycare. Then there was Ask Augustus, – a revolutionary new form of dog writing, where dogs wrote me to ask questions regarding the perplexing behavior of their Bipeds. Not only is this topic wholly within my expertise, but I would light-heartedly chide the question-askers. It was something Bipeds had never seen before. Thousands of accolades were bestowed upon me, and I had no choice but to accept them with grace and deference.
This is also when I uncovered the Evil Vet Syndicate and their pernicious machinations.
The Evil Vets are a shadow cadre what never sees the light of day. They seek the humiliation and depredation of all things canine. In recounting my first run-in with the piece, Vetting the Vets, they sought to explore one of my extremely private orifices with unprofessional gusto.
Evidently, the Evil Vets got wind of this first exposé and began seriously attacking and humiliating me in Slouching Towards Edgecomb. They drugged, shaved, and operated on me without my consent, and I was thrown into the most vile animal prison one could conceive. Initially, I despaired they had removed my wee-wee. Luckily, that was not the case.
A more serious surprise attack was unleashed upon me by the Evil Vets what I documented in, The Augmentor Cometh. I was criticized in this piece for overstating and embellishing an untenable fantasy. In truth, I was rendered an invalid as my trusted legs were crippled during a terrifying onslaught by the Evil Vets. And the most bewildering of things happened. I was transformed into a cyborg by The Underground Vets to combat The Evil Vets.
****
Teddy started out with great promise in his debut piece, Everything is Stupid. He had me at the title. But he was never truly a part of Chez Salty’s writing community. His continual fight with cancer ground down whatever gumption he had. And it must have been tough to write with half his jaw removed.
Teddy’s writing and voice were absolutely awful in my opinion. There was a pretense of him writing in his diary, but it was a limp, unrevealing, and uninteresting vehicle. I don’t wish to thrash a poor, dead dog, but Teddy didn’t fit into Chez Salty. He didn’t bond. His DNA analysis said he was 13% Husky, and I believe it. The aloofness, the stubbornness, the food-finicky attitude made him a pariah of sorts with us Chez Salty Labs.
Then Don had to present another eulogy, Goodnight Teddy Spaghetti.
Actually another two, if you count Max.
****
Even that upstart Marz produced a decent missive on his third try, though the piece Why Bipeds Cry was detestably saturated with needless youthful exclamation points.
I have to admit I smiled at the thought of this young pup grieving over his beloved snow tunnel. No doubt he will learn as al the other dogs at Chez Salty have learned, all snow is fleeting and recurring. Enjoy it whilst you can.
****
This Golden Age also holds Love Letters to the Edge – Don’s first foray into a letter / response format. He would quickly become addicted to its easy style and lack of a sustainable plot to churn out piece after piece of this ilk. He invariably trudged over this literary ground with Getting to Know Me Better, and The Rancid Interview, among others. He said these pieces were the inspiration for the Salty Paws Newsletter staple “We Love Hate Mail!”
Those works aren’t awful, they are just orders of magnitude less funny than his comedic Non-Fiction Magnum Opuses Pup Fiction and Hair of the 5 Dogs That Bit Me.
But perhaps Don’s finest work is the farcical quiz for New Yorkers to pass before being allowed into Maine, A Wee NY Test. It is definitely a magnificent synthesis of his engineering background, his literary irreverence and his blunt sarcasm. Oh my dear Mithridates, did that generate some hate mail from the Empire State and points unknown!!!
Unfortunately, Max passed on March 12, 2022, and I believe Don was so devastated he could only release Max’s Eulogy on May 1, 2022.
I cried.
We all cried.
We all wanted Max back. But there was no way it could happen. Not even if we sacrificed Don to The Great Black Dog. Of course that would be the start of something wonderful, but in the end all we would ever have was the results of Max putting his pen to paper.
Goodbye, old friend and enemy. I miss you. I will never have another brother like you.
Now we come to the uncomfortable crux of this entire piece. I will say out loud what most would ignore or not repeat: This blog really stinks on ice as of late.
If you disagree, I encourage you to bare-knuckle fight me in the comments.
Don seems to have hit his mediocre stride with Bird Town, What I Did for the 2024 Total Eclipse, and Blueberry Fields Forever. These are engaging and funny in spots, but they’re long-winded, over-explained, and plod endlessly through uninteresting and boring segments. These pieces are nothing like his sweet and short, A Wee NY Test.
The only stories of my own I can claim as a worthy read for this period are Dog Advice for Bipeds, which is a manifestation of my previous smash hit, Ask Augustus, except weak-kneed Bipeds ask me advice regarding their unruly curs, and Time is Cruel, and So Am I. I see the latter as arising from my deteriorating mental and physical state. It is written in the lamenting voice of an old, beaten, washed-up dog. Despite my bluster regarding The Evil Vets, the reader can tell my strong suit is played out and I am relying solely on bluff and deception to rid myself of these cutthroats. Yet unimaginably, Don and Liana bring me to The Vets more and more as of late.
I am most disappointed in the infantile dog Marzipan. He’s produced numerous works, but he never seems to eject a compelling read. Perhaps if the pup merely reduced the number of exclamation points by half, his works would be readable. Or perhaps he will fail to take Chez Salty’s writing reins in hand for the rest of his vacuous, scampering life.
Coal, Buddy, Teddy and Max are gone. All that remain are myself, Liana, Don, Zinnie, and the upstart Marz.
And what of Zinnie?
Will she rise to the Two Salty Dogs tradition of literate, distinguished dogs, or shall she fall by the wayside with the rest of these Bravo Network flunkies? Only time will tell.
And time is the exact thing I lack in any measure.
I can’t see her contributing soon. She is a placid, care-free bitch what makes for an extremely dull tale. Perhaps she can write about the latest brouhahas on the Bravo Network and her cravings for Pupperoni and Beggin’ Strips. Perhaps that will hold readership in our non-reading world. We shall see.
****
Don promised he would compile an anthology of my works from the last 13.5 years. I would love to believe him, as he has been central to my entire life for good or ill. But Don is a rather easily-distracted, unreliable dunderhead. It mystifies me still why he does not watch The Bravo Network.
And so, whatever friends and enemies I have left after reading this tome, I salute you. Don’t think badly of me and my earthly mistakes. I did the best I could with what I was dealt by The Great Black Dog.
Though I shan’t be writing another blog, please stop by the shop to say hello. Perhaps you could issue me a treat from The Free Treat Bowl at the counter.
I will be waiting under it. If I am asleep, I give you permission to wake me up. I promise I shall not be in grumpy unless you disturb my slumber for trivialities like head and butt-rubs and are cheap with the treats.
My name is Augustus Megatron Bulldozer Kingsbury.
My ears are deaf, my eyes are cloudy, and my legs are corrupt. My teeth are dull, and my muzzle is grey. My poops are irregular, inconsistent, and wildly vacillate in a diurnal pattern.
And I am increasingly relying on the kindness of Bipeds.
I remain,
Augustus Megatron Bulldozer Kingsbury
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