We realize, on a Sunday night, that we are failing miserably.


“Hey Otterpop, is dog agility the new black yet?”

The look says it all.

Not that I put any stock whatsoever in what a 14lb, demented little cattle dog chihuahua thing from hell thinks. Which is likely mostly about getting every tennis ball in the world as she knows it into her fat little posession and laying on top of them in a cool dirt hole. And bacon. And one day biting the blonde mailman with the creepy sunglasses. We all hate that guy though. I think he’s in cahoots with the robot mailguy that lives down the block and always looks past me with a vacant gaze when I walk by his house. Which, can I just tell you, is repainted to look like an easter egg from some cartoon duck bad dream.

Not that I’m the kind of person that really thinks my dogs would have an answer to a question like that. I’m pragmatic. Dogs think about dog stuff. Like whether they can run fast enough to reach the carcass before SHE comes running up behind shrieking some crap about “Leave It.”

I think about people stuff. Like whether these jeans make my ass look fat and why did I walk around all day with a black dirt smear on my cheek and is it wrong to think about ponies when the job loss rate rises another percentage point?

If dog agility was the new black, we’d be wearing Spring Fashions and handmade asymetrical cut jersey dresses from avant garde Dutch girls’ Etsy stores.

It not being the new black, and somehow failing in my mission to draw all of you non agility friends into my agility lair of coolness and fun, somehow gone from bad to worse and yeah. Because not only do these jeans make my ass look fat, somehow they cultivated that mid-drift muffin roll thing between a faded shrinky shirt and weird sale rack waistband of non fitting and wool socks showing under rolled up cuffs and just wearing that now. Just wearing it.

And the socks. Wool. They don’t even match. And they are Wool.

I mean really. I’m just wearing it.