Good Boy

Yesterday was the 13 year anniversary of my family’s adoption of our dog Barclay. I still remember that day well: My parents decided that we would get a pet dog, and that night we found ourselves journeying out to a breeder to find ourselves a dog. While we were there primarily to see a litter of Miniature Schnauzer puppies, it was a different puppy that caught our eye. A cute orange and brown little pup bounded in the room, and we decided that this would be our new pet. We took him home that night.

I remember waking up the next morning wondering if the previous night had been a dream. After all, when you’re ten years old, there’s nothing more exciting than getting a pet dog. My family and I spent the day discussing potential names, and I suggested the name “Barkley”, because the new puppy, with his orange and brown coat and round face reminded me of the dog from Sesame Street, (although I didn't realize at the time that the resemblance would fade with time). My family agreed on this name, and soon the nameless pup was nameless no longer. However, my dad, not knowing the Sesame Street reference, thought it was spelled “Barclay”, and had this name engraved on the puppy’s tags. Hence “Barkley” became “Barclay”, the newest addition to our family.

"High Five, Barclay"

From an early age, Barclay proved that he was a skilled performer, and always pleased his audience. Between my dad, my brother and me, we taught him to perform a variety of tricks. He knew the basics, include sit, stay, heel, and rollover. However, we added to his repertoire the ability to shake, to high five, to army crawl, and to pick a hand, (where he would use his paw to choose between two closed fists in order to expose the contents of his selection). We tried to teach him to “speak”, but his initial attempts always sounded like he was forcing air out of his nose rather than barking, so “speak” became “sneeze”. This was probably my favorite of his tricks. However, other would probably argue that the most entertaining trick was “human”, where Barclay would walk around on his hind legs like a “human” until the person with the doggy treat instructed him to stop.

"Human, Barclay, Human!"

He also would roll on his back to expose his stomach if you asked him if he “wanted a scratch” so you could pet his tummy, and he would put his head in your lap if you asked him if he wanted a “head scratch” so you could pet his head and scratch his ears.

Barclay had a knack for eating things that he shouldn’t have. As a puppy, he would rummage through the grass in our backyard to find chewing gum, which he would try and discreetly chew without us knowing. Later he discovered the joys of raiding the garbage when we weren’t home, but never managed to cover his tracks, (the trail of garbage always immediately indicated that a furry intruder had been about). A couple of times his mischievous appetite almost cost him his life: once, he decided to eat one of my Legos and ended up choking on it, (I managed to catch him in time and pop it out using the Heimlich Maneuver). Another time, he ate a whole bag of chocolate, (which is poisonous to dogs) that someone mistakenly left within doggy reach. Luckily for him, and for us, he threw it up before it poisoned him. However, this didn’t deter him from trying to get more of our people food. I’m not sure why he wanted our food so much; after all, those dry chunks of dog food that we fed him, (which resembled rat excrement) sure looked delicious to me, (although I never ate any to confirm).

Barclay the traveller

Barclay's favorite pastime was riding around with my dad in the car. Whenever anyone would say, “Hey Barclay, you wanna go in the car?!”, he would freak out and run around in impatience until someone let him outside so he could hop in for a ride. He loved sticking his head out the window so that he could scope out the neighborhood, and check out all the bitches, (I say this with the utmost respect for female dogs). Whenever he saw a potential mate, he would begin to yelp and neurotically run around the car in a vain attempt to make his presence known to the passing pooch. Once the dogs passed out of view, Barclay would make his way up into the space above the backseat of our old sedan, where he would recline beneath the slanted glass of our rear windshield. To passing cars, it looked like we had a bobble head stuffed animal wedged up in there, but it was actually just Barclay, enjoying his journey around town.

Barclay also enjoyed relaxing out in our yard, where he could protect our property from those menacing birds, squirrels, cats, and other animals who Barclay would have loved to get his paws on. Barclay would patrol our property without a leash, not because we had an electric fence, but because my dad taught him the borders of our property, and Barclay would be mindful of these limits whenever someone was watching.

However, on occasion, when Barclay sensed no one was watching, he’d make a break for it, chasing a distant animal and disappearing from view. This always gave my family much unneeded stress; we’d inevitably end up in our cars searching the neighborhood for the escapee. However, we always ended up empty handed, and had to wait for someone to find Barclay in their yard, and call the number on his collar so that we could come retrieve him.

One time, he disappeared late at night, and after hours of searching, and not hearing from anyone, we dejectedly returned home, fearing the worst. I didn’t sleep much that night, and at 7 am the next morning, as I was preparing to go back out to my car to search for my missing dog, I noticed Barclay sniffing the bushes in my front yard. I brought him inside thinking maybe he had spent the cold autumn night somewhere on our property, until I noticed he was covered in thousands of burs found in distant forests, only hinting at where he had traveled the night before.

Barclay was never neutered, (my dad is a firm believer in the golden rule, and since he values his testicles, he also respected the fact that Barclay might want to keep his). I believe that because Barclay kept his manhood, (er, doghood?), his hormones were what drove him to run away and chase all that canine tail roaming the neighborhood. I always wondered if he ever managed to meet that special someone in one of his late night rendezvouses and sire some Barclay Jrs. I used to ask him, but he would always ignore my inquiries. I guess when it came to other dogs’ butts, his philosophy was that he wouldn’t “sniff and tell”.

Barclay and I grew up together. Whenever I would come home from school, he would always be at the front window watching and waiting to greet me. He was there through all the events of my adolescence into adulthood, from elementary school, to junior high, to high school, to college, and out into the real world. As I got older, I came home less and less, but he was always there, to greet me and keep me company. All that he would ask was an occasional head scratch in return. He was a great friend, and I couldn’t have imagined growing up without him.

However, this weekend, I found out that Barclay was sick. He was refusing to eat, despite everyone’s attempts to feed him. My parents made him all his favorite people food in order to entice him to eat something, but he rejected it all, and began to grown thinner, wasting away. My parents took him to the vet, and the prognosis was not very good. Barclay was sick, (the vet suspected cancer), and wouldn’t have long to live. My parents took him home, and continued to try and feed him or get any reaction out of him, but he didn’t want to eat, and wouldn’t move from wherever he was placed. His time was nearing an end, and so my parents decided that rather than have him starve to death, the humane thing would be to put him to sleep. My parents called me on Sunday and let me know of their intentions, and I realized it was the right thing to do. Barclay died two days ago, just shy of his 13th anniversary with our family. My mom said it was one of the hardest things she ever had to do.

I really miss the little guy. He was a part of the family. Sure, he was a little quieter, a little more furry, and a little more likely to poop on the rug than your average family member. But still, that didn’t stop our family from embracing him as one of our own. I know it sounds weird, especially to those who have never had a serious pet, but my family and I loved him.

I wish I had the chance to say goodbye, but his decline happened so rapidly that I didn’t have the chance to make it back to PA. However, I’m not sure what one says to a dying dog. Sure, I could have told him how much I appreciated his loyalty and company over the years, and how I would never forget him, but my words would have fallen on deaf doggy ears. I guess a simple pat on the head would have sufficed, and telling him the words that we always uttered to let him know he was appreciated:

“Good boy, Barclay. You’re a good boy”.

Barclay, you were a great dog and a great friend. I’ll never forget you.

Sweating to the Oldies

Today, in my gym, I saw an old guy spend 20+ minutes on the rowing machine. He was wearing a turtleneck sweater, khaki pants, and loafers. What next, swimming in a three piece suit? This only furthers my belief that old people are crazy.

The City of Strangels

A few weeks ago I went to visit my brother in LA. I haven't really had a chance to write about it, but today, while stranded at the airport, I figured, why not throw up some pictures for your unenjoyment. Yeah, it took less effort than writing something, but if a picture is worth a thousand words, then you're getting a 7000+ word summary of my trip:

hello brother. hello hollywood

That chinese theater all the cool kids are talking about. I think I would choose chinese food over chinese architecture.

Doing olympic-caliber gymnastics at muscle beach

I meet the Pacific for the first time. It got my shoes wet. I kicked it in anger. That made things worse.

I was minding my own business, when all of a sudden, I was suspended in the air! Crazy LA...

Chuck Norris's star inspired me to do my patented jump kick. Some passing elderly people died from sheer amazement.

Driving to the bars. Because in LA, you have to drive everywhere.

What better place to spend president's day weekend than at a place where they make movies about presidents?

Thanks for the fun time Kyle. If Siskel and Ebert rated brothers and Siskel hadn't died of cancer, I'm sure they would give you two thumbs up.

Roeper doesn't like you, though. Get over it.

Beware the Eyes of March!

Yeah, I know I said I will post more, and I plan to make good on that promise. But once again, I've been busy. In the last week, I've been in DC, Las Vegas, Columbus, (where I am now), and tomorrow I have meetings in NYC, before heading back to DC for the weekend. Once the insanity ends, the more frequent blogging can begin. Or so I hope.

In any event, despite being busy, I don't feel stressed. Do you? Take the following stress test that was sent to me via email, (gracias madre):

The pictures attached are used to test the level of stress a person can handle. The slower the pictures move, the better your ability of handling stress.
Alleged criminals that were tested see them spinning around madly; however, senior citizens and kids see them standing still. None of these images are animated — they are perfectly still.

Will the Real Homer Simpson Please Stand Up?

Some British folk decided to recreate the Simpsons classic opening using live actors. I personally think their version does a great job of transforming Matt Groening's Springfield into real life. It's been spreading all over the internet, so I apologize if you've already seen it, but in case you haven't, check the link below:

Real Life Simpsons

Return of the Jew-di

I received the following IM tonight:

Kira (11:42:12 PM): Dear Mr. Weber, As a daily blog reader, I am writing to inform you that over the past month my life has been incomplete due to the lack of updates on your blog. I am writing to you as a concerned citizen who would like to have something to do with my time. Hope all is well and I look forward to an update shortly. Sincerely, Kira

Yes, it’s true. I’ve been a bad blogger. I’m going to ground myself and sit in my room and think about what I did…rather, DIDN’T do. And maybe, I’ll not have dessert. Yeah, that’ll teach me. I’m gonna learn to be a good blogger, even if it kills me. Just kidding, I don’t really care that much.

Truth be told, I’ve been really busy the past few weeks. I’ve ridden planes, trains, and many automobiles all over this great land of ours within the last three weeks or so. I spent a day in Philadelphia interviewing potential recruits for my company. I traveled several times to the HQ of a mega lingerie company, (to be clear, “mega” refers to the size of the company, not the size of their lingerie. You don’t see a lot of fat people or giants in their ads.) I spent a long weekend in LA visiting my brother Kyle. And I spent a day or two down in Guanatamo Bay, getting beaten by guards and being told I was a lousy jerk. They hurt my feelings. And my internal organs.

I’ll probably add some entries in the coming days about the previous experiences, (with the exception of my time at Gitmo, which I will repress and never speak about again). I know you are all excited. But be forewarned: too much excitement over blog entries has been known to cause cancer in lab rats. Don’t say I didn’t warn you…