Veterinarians Go Directly to Heaven; Ministers Do Not Pass Go; Do Not Collect Two Hundred Dollars; Go Directly to Purgatory And Be Happy About It


Veterinarians Go Directly to Heaven; Ministers Do Not Pass Go; Do Not Collect Two Hundred Dollars; Go Directly to Purgatory And Be Happy About It

My other friend with the same name as my late veterinary friend who died like what  seems was just a few days ago and was,

Came in the coffee shop today.  I said he looked good since I read his obituary.

He said someone had handed him his obituary between the early service and the regular service on Sunday.

Ushers who were assigned to both services, remarked on how much better the sermon was at the early service.

They are both doctors.  One was a DVM and the other is a ministerial Ed.D.

They got each other’s mail and phone calls.  The vet got church school curricula and the

minister got late night calls about sick gerbils.

The minister, a bit put off by the timing of the calls, never identified himself as the Ed.D and not the DVM and told the people he would do a laying of hands on the phone for healing of the gerbils.

I think the vet might have lost some business without knowing why.

The vet read the Church school material and became more religious.

The minister was divinely sentenced to a few more millennia in purgatory when he goes for bad religious humor and insensitivity to the feelings of gerbil owners and possibly harming the business of a sole proprietor.

My ex-mafia member, ex-brother-in-law, a lapsed, un-lapsed (repeat that several times) Roman Catholic tells me he prays a thousand people out of purgatory every day.  It’s his penance for things best left unnamed.

If my minister friend who has the same name as my friend the vet, dies before I do, and if I’m not in an Alzheimer’s wing of some nursing home

and if my ex-brother-in-law is still alive and not in purgatory or maybe even hell himself for things best left unnamed,

I’m going to call him and give him the name of my friend who has the same name as my friend, the late great vet.

I’ll be sure to tell him to pray for the minister.  I’m sure the vet’s in heaven.

And then, when I meet my colleague in purgatory, I’ll hope my ex-mafia ex-relative prays for me, too.

You Need to Help the Humans


You Need to Help the Humans

The animal purists say don’t anthropomorphize,

And I say I’m not dressing him up to tap dance or go on point and do a pirouette.  There’s no tutu for this big Chocolate Lab.

I’m only trying to translate “Rahr, rahr, rahr…rahry, rahr, rahr.”

The authorities tell me to get into the dog’s world, mind, become a dog.

I never learned “Rahr, rahr, rahr” talk.

I’m trying to understand.  “Speak to me, Oh Descendant of the Great White/Brown/Black Wolf.”

He tilts his head; I hear a “Hum?”

Looking at me quizzically, he speaks as if he is the Oracle of Delphi: “Rahr, rahr, rahr.”

“Oh, great, Oh, Great One. What the hell does that mean?

Let’s try this.

“Show me, Boomer.  Show me.  Come on, boy. Show me. What do you want? What do you want? What do you want?”  Three times a charm.

“Rahr, rahr, rahr.”  He heads to his food bowl.  Stands and points his majestic, long and straight snout toward the empty bowl.

Damn. I don’t get “Rahr, rahr, rahr,” but he gets English.

Did someone tell him he needed to help the humans

And learn their language?