Who you gonna call?

Sharing our home and our lives with dogs is a privilege. We simply provide for them. What they give back is immeasurable. We laugh often, play like children, forget the troubles of the world together. We are blessed.

It was never our intent to have three dogs. They all found their way to us by different means, tugging at just the right heart string at just the right time. Each needed a place to call home, and we were happy to oblige. Considering their disparate histories, and scattered geographic origins, I would never have expected them to fall in love with each other and embrace life together as quickly as they did.

In hindsight it all seemed so innocent.

For some reason not known to me, Nigel, Sola and Truffles share a common goal: complete and utter fruitbowl decimation. Not a day passes without a paw, tail, or deliberately thrown snout making contact with my nether regions. It is not at all uncommon for Mrs. Author to walk around a corner to find me writhing on the floor, cursing one of our critters. I often return from work to the bustle of my beloved family only to find myself temporarily crippled, laptop bag and its contents strewn about me, the safety of my office miles behind me; Nigel eying me for a treat that will not be dispensed.

The long term result of this behavior has been a change in my posture and stature. Multiple instances of paw to parts contact has left me hunched over. I walk with my legs slightly crossed. Mrs. Author likes to remind me that I was 6'1" when we met. I now stand at just over four feet tall.

Nigel: I do not want to relinquish my sofa rights to children. So you're not having any.

Author: Had I not investigated a strange rustling sound emanating from one of the guest bedrooms Saturday, I would have chalked all of this up to coincidence. The door thrown open, I froze as my blood temp dropped by a few degrees - Sola was practicing.



Frightened and disillusioned, I started to pay closer attention to the happenings around the house. All was quiet until Sunday evening.

Unfortunate as it may be, Sola's hatred for TV dogs necessitates confinement when the Puppy Bowl plays during Super Bowl halftime. I thought it best to send Nigel and Truffles to the dog room with her so she would not be lonely. Another mistake. As pooches of assorted breeds made their way across the screen, Mrs. Author and I were oohing and aahing when the faintest sound of music drifted toward us from the dog room at the end of the hall.


If the pops comes home, and his parts aren't blocked, who you gonna call? Junk Busters!

Throw a paw right up, gonna break that.......spirit. Who you gonna call? Junk Busters!

If he gets home late, use your newfound trick. Who you gonna call? Junk Busters!

Make him quite irate, try to smash that-


Mrs. Author slammed the door and ushered me in to the kitchen. A tear of painful remembrance ran down my cheek as their tune of torture echoed in my head. I watched her rustle through kitchen cabinets and drawers, and closed my eyes as one of the original lines from the song found its way back to my memory:


Lemme tell ya something
Bustin' makes me feel good!


My love for music had burned me. We listen to music daily in the car, the house - iTunes is always running in the background. I had always been told that leaving music on for dogs was soothing and helped them to relax. It never occurred to me that the lyrics were of importance, nor was I aware that said music would facilitate twig and berry destruction.

Reality sank in when I felt Mrs. Author tugging at my belt. While this is normally the sign of good things to come, I looked down to find a rather foreboding arrangement. The dog room door creaked open slowly, ominously. Sola inched her way down the hall on a poorly disguised scouting mission and moved in for a closer look.



It would be of no surprise to me if Williams-Sonoma did not approach me for their next advertising campaign, but let me be the first to tell you that Mrs. Author is brilliant. The ensuing days sounded like a loop tape of the Gong Show. Paws flew with fury, only to be met with a metallic clang that signaled serious canine disappointment. Time after time, my little metal friend thwarted their advances with a resounding ring that rattled my fillings and knocked crows off their perches countywide.


A call from the neighbors underscored the effectiveness of my newest fashion accessory, Mr. Strainer.

*Ring* *Ring*

"Hello, Hunchback house."

Neighbor: "Hey I just wanted to ask you quickly - have you been hearing church bells?"

"Um....well yes, I have. It sounds like it's coming from the neighbors on the other side of me..."

Neighbor: "OK, I thought someone had taken the Liberty Bell on tour and was driving it up the street."




As I recall the events of the week, two things occur to me:

It feels smashing to walk upright.

And I'll never look at pasta the same way again.





Note: 1-800-Got Junk © 2009 1-800-GOT-JUNK? LLC and RBDS Rubbish Boys Disposal Service Inc.