Yeah? Analyze this bitch!

It’s a measure of how low our society has sunk that psychologists still roam the earth. What will it take to rid ourselves of these noxious pests – more dangerous than H1N1? After having failed utterly to decipher humans in any meaningful way it seems now it is time for our dogs to be afraid… be very afraid.

What’s even more scary is that they get paid to roam and babble. Here is a classic upchuck of psychobabble, this time on the subject of dogs – you’d think they’d at least get something right. Or not.

Excerpt: ‘Inside of a Dog: What Dogs See, Smell, and Know’

This is a review in the New York Times on a new book Inside Of A Dog -What Dogs See, Smell, and Know by Alexandra Horowitz. I dare you to read the whole review. Here are some of the stunning revelations:

“A human being experiences a rose as a lovely, familiar shape, a bright, beautiful color and a sublime scent. That is the very definition of a rose. But to a dog? Beauty has nothing to do with it; the color is irrelevant, barely visible, the flowery scent ignored. Only when it is adorned with some other important perfume — a recent spray of urine, perhaps — does the rose come alive for a dog….” (So…you’re saying dogs don’t buy roses on Valentines? Astounding.)

“To a dog,” Horowitz points out, “a hammer doesn’t exist. A dog doesn’t act with or on a hammer (on a hammer?), and so it has no significance to a dog. At least, not unless … its dense wooden handle can be chewed like a stick.” (No way! Next we’ll be learning that dogs have no use for chopsticks or Rubik’s Cubes. My world is starting to disintegrate…)

“Dogs…sniff a lot. They are, says Horo­witz, ‘creatures of the nose.’ (So that’s what they’re doing…!)

“Dogs, she writes ‘smell time.’” (How do they do that???) “Odors are less strong over time, so strength indicates newness…” (Incredible. Hey, wait – I smell time too – that’s how I know when to throw the milk carton away… Whoa, does that make me a dog?”)

And here is a section that will fill you with guilt – or should that be weltschmertz?

“Though they have inherited some aversion to staring too long at eyes, dogs seem to be predisposed to inspect our faces for information, for reassurance, for guidance.’ They are staring, soulfully, into our umwelts.” (This sounds pretty scary until you realize that umwelts just means ‘your own personal corner of the world.’ Now when was the last time you and your dog had some real, quality soul-staring? Go ahead cringe and writhe with shame.)

That’s the most useful info the reviewer extracted from the book. Let’s just recap: dog’s have noses. They don’t use hammers. They don’t care for roses. There’s a message there for hardware shops and florists…

I wonder if it’s occurred to anyone that after the US stopped importing cigars from Cuba the average national IQ began to decline.

Looking at what the various governments have been up to since they told Fidel to go take a hike it seems like a possible conclusion. Perhaps they still have to discover what I discovered: cigars make the little grey cells get down and boogie.

As soon as my eyes lighted on the box of Cohibas I knew life was going to be good once more. After all, I hadn’t
stopped smoking for health, social, or religious reasons.

I liked smoking but I just didn’t want to spend the rest of my life patting my pockets, collecting lighters, lurking pathetically in airports or outside shops, having cigarettes such an integral part of my existence that I felt like a slave to the habit.

Those were all the benefits I now enjoyed: a feeling of independence, a certain insouciant air, empty pockets, whiter teeth, and the mental agility of a cactus.

The jury was still out on whether that last one was a benefit and would have stayed out if I hadn’t stuck a Cohiba in my mouth and applied a flame.

It was incredible. It was like a switch had been thrown. I could suddenly think. Before the nicotine could have conceivably bonded with any cells or tissues, thoughts began racing across my tundra like gazelles on triple shot lattes.

Really good thoughts too. I am pretty sure that in the first wild, thundering stampede was the cure for cancer, the complete plot for a sure-fire New York Times bestseller, and the winning lotto numbers for the next five years.

Alas, they were all wasted on the listeners – myself and the general manager – which was a great pity because my first words were “We should buy lotto tickets!” – a suggestion that he did not immediately reject.

Ah, looking back at that moment now I feel that I am viewing a major milestone, certainly in my own history, but perhaps also in the history of this civilization.

After all, why not? And those thoughts they just keep on comin’! Even without Cohibas, in fact, these days when I want a good idea I take a stroll on the roof of my apartment and tap into the great Cosmic Pond of Inspiration.

Yes, I have an occasional cigar, once in a while, just to celebrate the rebirth of my consciousness and enjoy the best of both worlds.

THE END