The Otherwise Picayune Baby Boomer

Boomer is one picayune, fussy, selective, snobby Chocolate Lab when it comes to treats, dog food and all other

dogs toward which he is not particularly picayune, fussy, selective or snobby.  He just avoids them like I avoid

my really obnoxious relative whose really bad acid reflux breath kind of sums it up, especially when

he gets really close with one of his really bad jokes and then guffaws in my face. Then we stopped at the Wednesday

Farmers’ Market in Phoenix where they love dogs as well as every other place in Phoenix as versus every place in our home state

Michigan according to health laws. The uppity Boomer always struts right by the “Doggy Stands” touting their treats

not to mention the doggies themselves except this time when he just flat-out stopped dead in his tracks like he was

sniffing the doggie equivalent of a really, really classy girly butt or catnip, which he was, the catnip that is. The vendor

told us while I tried to control the otherwise totally controllable dog all about the organic, totally natural,

unbelievably wholesome treats while the baby Boomer sniffed, smelled and then slurped embarrassingly at the strands at the end

of the rope and then just grabbed it and pulled it  right off the table without even paying for it.  “He’s normally as

quiet as himself except right now,” I quipped.  He whined, growled, pleaded and cajoled the rope whose

ends hung over the table just taunting and tickling his nose.  He attacked and grabbed the rope and pulled it

off the table about as fast as Kenny Rodgers knew when to hold ‘em, knew when to fold ‘em, knew when to walk away

and knew when to run. He grabbed it and ran, dare I say it, like the wi…that will never be accepted…fast.  Thank God for the leash or maybe not. “Boomer, stop!”

It was then I knew we had a hippy, dippy baby Boomer.  I bought the rope and he wouldn’t let go.  “Drop it, Boomer.

Drop it, Boomer.  DROP IT, BOOMER.”  All to no avail. My sophisticated, uppity, snobby dog made a spectacle

of himself, not to mention embarrassing me when he went bonkers over the rope. “What is it?” I asked.  “Hemp,” he said.

As my dog tugged and all around roared, I, too, an old, hippy, dippy, baby boomer asked,

“Is it smoke-able?”