Hi nice friends!
Besides just being pretty and nice and that I like eating cheese, there are some other things I have learned while I've been a whippet dog, and one of them is that if someone wants to open your friend to see what is inside - even if that someone is the nice-eyed veterinarian man with the green pajamas - it is time to bark and be sad, even if you never bark at any other times ever.
If they really REALLY want to know what is inside Mr. Mordred, and he doesn't want to answer because of the Constitution, I will stand up and tell them that there is kibble, and there is water and there is grass, and yes, there is also the bunch of yummy crackers that we found just sitting in the high-up cabinet, but if they REALLY want those back, I will do little whippet dog dances and be cute out in the street until nice people give me enough of the money to buy more of the crackers and then no one has to go looking inside Mr. Mordred for anything else, and he can stay very closed.
Thank you, nice friends.
xoxoMorgane
Ahem.
Gentle Readers, it has come to my attention that my young colleague, Miss Morgane has divulged the sordid details of my neglect of my guard duties yesterday. I appreciate that my non-well-being was cause for the entire pack's concern, and I apologize profusely, but in my defense, my tummy was the yuckiest I can recall its ever being. Can you imagine the frustration I encountered, not having the energy to ascertain the origins of many and varied suspicious sounds and scents, and protect my Daddy from them? Oh, the caninity!
And while I was all achey and pukey on the floor (and the bed and the couch, and I think possibly on Daddy) so very many things passed before my eyes – all the walkies taken, sidewalk treats savored, faces licked, and sweat socks dismantled. I've had the best life a Wolfhound could hope for, but I realize, there are things I still must accomplish.
1. Try even harder to let my Daddy know how very much I love him. If that entails waking up to deliver morning kisses at 5 a.m. rather than my usual 6 a.m., then so be it.
2. Eat more butter. Butter is awesome.
3. Miss India Husky-Chihuahua of Brooklyn, New York – you have the most bewitching tail I've ever had the privilege to lay nose to. Would you perhaps consider meeting me for a frolic near the Doggie Beach at Prospect Park some brisk, winter afternoon? I have a pigeon carcass I've been saving behind a boulder there for just such an occasion, and I'd be honored to share.
Carpe beefem!
M.T.D.
p.s. Canine colleagues and/or your people, please let the charming Morgane and me make your acquaintance via our new message boards. I'm available for cuddles, guard duties, long walks and discussions of French surrealist cinema. Un Chien Andalou is a particular favorite…
Hi nice friends!
I am just a little whippet dog, and sometimes I do not understand things very well, but a thing I did understand today was that my big friend Mr. Mordred is not having a good-week tummy-wise, and that the nice, tall man with the green pajamas had to make some of Mr. Mordred's insides come outside so he could figure out why.
I cannot say that Mr. Mordred was all that very happy about that happening, or about how the nice ladies in the clean white pajamas took off all his belly fur so they could smear jelly on it (Jelly is for IN the belly! Along with peanut butter and sometimes parts of our Mommy Girl's shoes!). So I am trying to make him feel better by using various methods of being pretty and nice, and also skinny so he doesn't feel funny about being all skinny by himself.
He would not like it if he knew that I was telling you about a time that he is not being as big and strong and big as he usually is, but I only have four paws to cross, and I thought that even more being crossed might make him feel better even more soon!
xoxoYour Also Skinny Friend Morgane
Gentle Readers,
It should be noted that while yes, the fetching Miss Morgane, and our cousins-in-law Miss Belle Yorkie and her sister, Miss Gilda Dachshund The DeBordieu Debutante are indeed wonderful specimens of feminine caninity, and are several thousand percent more charming than any robotical iDog could ever be, they are also in great demand in houses and condominiums all across everywhere. Thus, it may be rather a while before you have the opportunity to in-person admire and reward them with delicious treats for their rampant lovely-being.
Might I humbly suggest that in the interim, you could consider subscribing to the Dog Show USA iTunes video podcast through your computer machine? I would say that the price of it is a pat on my head and perhaps a spoonful of peanut butter, but that would not be the truth, and I am even more interested in being Good and Truthful than I am in peanut butter. Which is a lot. The price is FREE, and you may sit at your computer machine and watch the dancing and quite attractive faces of many of my canine colleagues whose Mommies and Daddies have entered them into our online Dog Show.
If you are feeling sad, it will make you un-sad. If you are feeling good, it will make you feel much more good. If you are feeling hungry, it will not bring you peanut butter, but it will keep you happy until someone does. At least in my experience.
M.T.D.
Gentle Readers,
As you may recall, I have alluded to my lady-love previously, but I can no longer contain my passion for Miss India Husky-Chihuahua of Brooklyn, New York. I have recently penned this paean for inclusion in my collection of poetry entitled "Heaves Of Grass".
I humbly present you with "The Love Song Of Mordred T. Dog".
Miss India, with pelt quite soft
Your lovely scent – I catch a waft
My heart goes thump, as does my tail
My tough pup demeanor unerringly fails
I see your perked ears and cute nose so active
And find this attentiveness very attractive
Worry you not I'm in this for kicks
Many years hence, that problem was "fixed"
So wee pups won't get in the way of our cuddles,
Our frolicking gleefully, splashing in puddles
Sharing our chew toys and sharing our kibble
(I'd gladly stand back if you wanted a nibble)
We’d hunt down smells to determine their source
Then howl and woof-woof 'til our throats were all hoarse
Sniffing down alleys and romping in parks
The air would be filled with our "I love you!" barks
India, sweet India, please give me a nuzzle
And I'll plant damp kisses all over your muzzle
M.T.D.
Hi nice friends!
Mr. Mordred told me that a nice man on the interweb who was not Daddy or Mr. Anderson Cooper said that a funny, funny lady had gotten married to someone who is a dolphin and who is the love of her life.
I think that is so very nice because everyone should be with people or dolphins who make them happy. and also because it means I can marry both Daddy and cheese! I want to marry Daddy because he is so tall and smart and brave and kind and good-smelling and I love him very much, and cheese because it is always yummy, and has never even once made me cry.
Mr. Mordred says he would like to marry Miss India Husky-Chihuahua, and her only because of the love, and I think that is nice, but I bet my squeaky fish toy that if if a big plate of cheeseburgers also proposed to him, he would probably say yes, because he really does enjoy cheeseburgers quite very much. Maybe then he could eat them and they'd go away and then he can marry Miss India Husky-Chihuahua, afterward! For a little Whippet dog, I am good at solving things, sometimes!
xxxMorgane
Gentle Readers,
I have some rather urgent sniffing to attend to presently, but I wish to take a moment to field a question from one of our faithful Dog Blog readers. Why do I and other hounds chase our tails? Well, no matter how luxurious and/or stately one's tail may be, the likelihood that said tail will chase itself is slim to none.
I certainly hope that is a satisfactory answer to your query. Please feel free to address any further canine-related inquiries to me, Mordred T. Dog - Irish Wolfhound at Large a.k.a. The Answer Hound.
M.T.D.
Hello nice friends!
I love my Daddy even more than I do not love being cold, but if he asked me to pull him on skis through the snow, I would probably cry at least some.
I am available for marshmallows and warm tea and cuddles after, though, so please ask me!
xoxoMorgane
Gentle Readers,
My question today is as follows: "When does a 6'6" Irish Wolfhound eat pie?"
The answer, as I understand it, is "Whenever I would like to. Providing there is a pie available." If you would like to see me putting my findings into action, you would be most welcome to observe a short documentary film of such on the You Tube on your computer machine.
Mordred T. Dog, Irish Wolfhound at Large / Eater of Delicious Holiday Treats
Hi nice friends!
Well gosh – I can not rightly say that I know what cockles are, but I’m pretty sure my heart has an awful lot of them, because they just got all warm and toasty when my Daddy told me about a story he read about on the interweb. In England – which Daddy says is too far for me to run to and visit this afternoon – Miss Hazel German Shepherd, aged 2, has gotten to be just such very bestest friends with a pretty little burrowing owl named Boobah. Boobah rides around on Hazel’s head all day long, and I’ll just bet they spend the whole golly-darned time giggling and talking about things like cats, and sleeping, and how nice trees are. It’s so awfully nice to have friends!
And speaking of friends, that handsome boy Mr. Mordred had a tummy ache this morning and had to go see the veterinarian doctor. Boooo! Raise a happy paw for him and wish for him feeling better soon, soon, soon! Two-leggers – pet your four-legged friends, and my fellow pups - kiss your Mommy and Daddy and let them know how much you love them!
xoxoMorgane
Gentle Readers,
I ask you, is there any sound more soul-stirring than that of car keys jingling? I realize that some of my canine colleagues might cite the whirr of the electric can opener, or the gentle glide of the refrigerator door hinges, but they clearly have never been in the back of my Daddy's Jeep.
As my lovely colleague Morgane can attest, it's a magical place where a dog can lay down his or her frolic-spent body for a brief shut-eye (though I, Mordred T. Dog remain ever vigilant, alert, and ready to protect my Daddy and dear Morgane at all times!), and open them again to find trees, and grass, and all manner of sniffable, chewable, roll-around-on-able things as far as a sighthound's keen eyes can see. If the chilly wind weren't ruffling my rugged, manly coat, I would swear I was dreaming (which I would, if I slept, but I don't…not deeply, at least).
But I cannot yet abandon myself to the delights of the unfettered outdoors. Morgane and I must confer and collect our thoughts on the miraculous events of yesterday – the dog show on the televsion machine, almost everyone's Mommies and Daddies being home during the light-outside hours, and the mysterious appearance of ham and turkey morsels in the food bowls of nearly every one of our acquaintances. The theory at the park was that perhaps it was some sort of national dog appreciation day being celebrated, but we'll get to the bottom of this, or my name isn't Mordred T. Dog – Irish Wolfhound At Large (though sometimes my Daddy calls me "Lumpy.")
M.T.D.
Gentle Readers,
I feel we have reached a point in our relationship wherein I am comfortable with sharing something of a rather personal nature. I, Mordred T. Dog, in my puppy days of yore, longed to be a show dog. Yes, there were head pats and adulation to be considered, as well as the companionship of some rather admirable specimens of dog-dom, but more than any of these, I relished the notion of a very public forum in which I could be the Goodest Boy Possible for my Daddy.
Sadly, before I even got a chance to set paw into the show ring, my Pup Star aspirations were lopped short by the untimely meeting of a front toe and a heavy steel door. Thus, lo, these many years, I have been one claw short of my dreams…until now.
Thanks to our forward-thinking, and utterly delectable-smelling friends at Dog Show USA and Purina, even those of us who are a claw off, a pound or two over, or a hair stray of a rigorous breed standard can be publicly acknowledged as the Very Good Dogs we are – and our beloved Daddies and Mommies do not even have to put us in the car, make us take baths, or have long, hard-to-remember names like Champion His Royal King Mighty Emperor FuzzBottom Esq., when we are perfectly contented answering to, say, "Mr. Droolyhead" at home.
And, in an equally refreshing stray from the norm, pups of mixed and/or dubious parentage are most welcome entrants as well. While I, Mordred T. Dog am pleased to be a pureblooded ambassador of the splendid Irish Wolfhound tradition, and the lovely Morgane is an impeccable instance of Whippetry, my dear friend Jo-Jo Poo-Poo Pants of Hoboken in the New Jersey (pictured above) would be a most worthy contender for the mantle of "Cutest Dog," which is open to canine contestants of all shapes, sizes, and toe-counts. My fellow four-leggers – are you ready for your close-ups?
M.T.D.
Gentle Readers,
Oh my goodness. Oh my goodness. Dog Show on right now. I just...oh my goodness. The lovely Morgane is so excited, she's running around in circles on the couch and nipping at her own dainty tail. We'd heard talk about it at the park, of course, but...oh my goodness. Daddy was watching the Macy's Thankgiving Day Parade on the television machine, and then it was over, and now there's the National Dog Show.
I do not wish to brag, but I believe I see a few dogs I know right now. Oh...oh...Hi, Sparkles!...can you see me through the television machine? It's me, Mordred!
More later...I'm just so araaAAAARRROOOoooooo....
M.T.D.
p.s. And I would just like to mention that there are an awful lot of my canine colleagues out there who are not as fortunate as my friend Morgane and me. Perhaps you may be the two-legger who helps them. I can promise you that they will be as thankful and loving to you are as we are to our Daddy.
http://www.rallytorescue.org/
Gentle Readers,
I would just like to note that while I continue tirelessly, though without nearly enough naps, to raise the profile of Irish Wolfhounds everywhere as Very Good Dogs, sometimes I admit to a small bit of jealousy of my charming companion Miss Morgane. While she is in her own right a most excellent canine ambassador, it would seem that the fame of her kind has spread further than has mine.
How do I assess this, you may ask? Well, so often when strangers stop our Daddy along the street to inquire as to what breeds we are, when he tells them that Miss Morgane is a Whippet, the response is, at least 87% of the time, "Whippet? Real good." We Irish Wolfhounds elicit no such response. Are we not dogs? We are Wolfhounds. And we are, dare I say, real good, too.
Devotedly yours,
M.T.D.
Hi nice friends!
I had the most interesting chat with my dear friend Mitzi Maltese today! I know she's prone to fib sometimes, like that time she told the entire park that she lived in a penthouse made of liver treats, but this time she mentioned that a sister of hers is going to be in a dog show on television on Thursday. 
Then that sweet Miss Roxanne Pit Bull (the pretty girl in the boa!) said that she overheard Axel Swissie at the dog spa saying he was getting his nails done especially for the National Dog Show, and I know for a fact that he's won several titles because I heard his Mommy tell my Daddy. Plus, he…he is...awfully handsome… (Golly - don't tell Mordred I said that - I'd be ever so embarassed!)
Oh, I begged and pleaded with Daddy to let me be in a show, but I believe he just thought I wanted a cookie, 'cause that's what he gave me. It was an awfully nice cookie, and I nibbled it right up, but golly, wouldn't it be just divine to have everyone fussing over you and making you pretty? Here – see for yourself!
xoxoMorgane
Greetings, Gentle Readers.
Upon the occurrence of today's chill in our borough of Brooklyn, New York, my charming, young Whippet colleague, Morgane has agreed to join me in a dialogue on the comparative merits and detriments of the seasonal conditions. I will begin.
I, Mordred T. Dog am an Irish Wolfhound. We, as a breed, possess a dual coat consisting of a soft under layer, and a harsh, wiry outer layer – ideal for weathering the extremes of the winter, well, weather. (Look at me – I made a funny.) My dear Morgane, would you care to present the results of your research?
I'm cold.
Ah yes. The cold. Irish Wolfhounds have been bred to thrive in the chilly, damp climes of our native Celtic land. We are of hardy constitution, and can easily withstand temperature plunges down to 19 below zero. And my considerably more petite sighthound colleague, the Whippet?
I'm cold.
Oh, the cold! Doesn't it simply invigorate every one of your senses? Making your nostrils tingle, your paw pads sing, and your…
Mr. Mordred, I'm awfully, awfully cold. Whippets don't have any body fat, and I believe my little nosie has fallen right off.
Yes, Morgane, but you look ever so fetching in your winter ensemble. The snood and coat bring out the lovely colors in your fur. I, Mordred T. Dog need no such accoutrements to supplement the natural weather protection of my luxurious, but rugged pelt, but even if I did, I am certain I would not be half as attractive as you, ma chere Whippet.
Why thank you kindly, Mr. Mordred. That's really… Um, Mr. Mordred?...
Yes, my dear?
I'm cold.
Sigh. I suppose I'm not going to make much conversational headway in this particular company, but I'd wager that the handsome Mr. Axel G. Swissie would have something to say on the subject. Slip me some paw, brother dog?
And if you, or someone you love are a super-happy winter pup, I would be most delighted to make your acquaintance. Most delighted, indeed.
M.T.D.
p.s. I'm still awfully, awfully cold. Might anyone have a little blanket? A warm cup of chicken broth? I'll take anything...
Gentle Readers,
I may have noted a time or two that I place a great deal of importance on good-being for my Daddy. Today, I would like to commence an on-going feature wherein I commend other canines for their notable goodery toward their Daddies.
Case in point – an extremely good Long-Haired German Shepherd who Morgane and I encountered on the street during walkies yesterday. We had all paused on a street corner for a light of red, and I moved over to sniff a friendly hello. She did not return the greeting, and thus I feared I was being a bit too forward. I was just about to proffer a paw of apology when Morgane whispered in my ear that it looked as if Ms Shepherd's Daddy could not see especially well, and that perhaps I should note that the young lady was outfitted with a rather attractive leather handled harness. Heavens! She was looking out for her Daddy in a most thorough fashion, and I was in absolute awe at her level of unwavering goodness.
Ms Good Shepherd whispered a polite hello and goodbye to us after she ascertained that her Daddy was not in any imminent danger, and led him safely through the crosswalk. I, Mordred T. Dog was tremendously inspired, and am now considering how I may similarly amplify the level of goodness I can provide to my own Daddy. He is, of course, the strongest, smartest, kindest two-legger in the whole entire world, but perhaps there is some service I can provide for him. Oh…I have it! Daddy is a very busy and important man, and now that it has gotten somewhat chilly outside…
Very chilly. Very very chilly.
Yes, my dear Morgane, very chilly. As I was saying, I have heard Daddy saying that he would like to acquire a new winter coat, but he does not have time for the shopping. I, Mordred T. Dog, will give him some of mine. After he goes night-night, I will steal away to the living room, remove his inadequate outwear from the hook, and roll to and fro upon it until it is fully blanketed with contributions from my own warm, luxurious pelt. It's really the very least I can do for my Daddy.
We commend you Ms Good Shepherd – you are an inspiration to us all. A 21-woof salute!
M.T.D.
Gentle readers,
I would like to share with you an excerpt from my aforementioned poetry collection, Heaves Of Grass. Ahem...
On Being A Big, Mellow Hound In A Small-ish Apartment
I am a proud Irish Wolfhound
Not the petite-est of breeds
One-thirty if you're counting by pound
We're not so much dogs as we're steeds
My Daddy is not a short fellow
A giant compared to some guys
But if I stand up straight saying, "Hello!"
My nose reaches way past his eyes
I greet every morning with tail wags
A stretch and a woof and some kibble
My Daddy comes home with the large bags
Tinned food? Oh, sure – I'll have a nibble
I eat, then I sleep, then I eat more
Big doggery sure has its perks
To some it might sound like a huge bore
But for me – I just know that it works
Some dogs seem to need lots of frolic
But I'm quite content with my strolls
To me this apartment's bucolic -
My days measured out in food bowls
M.T.D.
Gentle Readers,
It has come to my attention that the most insightful, relevant, and important publication in the history of magazines, The Bark, has in its current issue a thought-provoking article on the dynamics of petting. The esteemed Dr. Patricia B. McConnell purports that there is, in fact, a right and a wrong way to pet your dog. As you might imagine, this has fomented a good deal of debate in our household. My charming colleague Morgane argues that there exists no such thing as an incorrect petting time, place, or methodology. Belly rubs, ear scritches, head pats – she will take them anywhere she can get them. I am not saying that she is indiscriminate with her affections…all right, I suppose I am. Not that there's anything wrong with that – it is just not how I, Mordred T. Dog, choose to roll.
I will always happily receive all manner of pets and pats from my Daddy, and the Girl who sits close to him on the couch indeed possesses a deft hand with the tummy rubs and neck-fur ruffling. Would that all who wished to lay hands upon my luxurious pelt were so skilled, but sadly, such is not the case. Oh, the tales I could tell you of wrong-direction fur strokes, ear yanks, and head pats administered as if my noble skull were instead a bouncy, red playground ball. The horror. The indignity. The ouchiness.
But I am not seeking your pity, dear friends. Rather, I would like to enlist your support for my initiative to include a mandatory dog-petting education curriculum in schools all across the land. Such a program would provide two-legged young people with a most pleasurable interaction with representatives of our canine community, participating pooches would have their fill of attention, hugs, and cuddles, and, most importantly, it would assure competent and un-annoying pettings for future generations of dogs.
If not for me, then won't you at least do it for the puppies?
M.T.D.
Gentle Readers,
I've been working on some poetic tributes for several dear friends. Sadly, a face-lick can only say so much.
I know I'm no Whip-Poet, but if you'll indulge me…
My friend Morgane is a pretty whippet
Given a drink, she'll not slurp, but sip it
When she stretches, you'll see all her ribs
'Cause when food plummets floor-ward, she gives me dibs
She dozes quite often – a most charming habit
Her legs twitch in sleep, like she's chasing a rabbit
Her nose is sharp, in form and in function
In saying this next part, I have no compunction
You may search high and low, about and around
But you will not find a more elegant hound
I thank you for your time. I'll be paw-tographing copies of my forthcoming book, "Heaves of Grass" by the big bone statue in Tompkins Square Park every afternoon, so please let me make your acquaintance.
M.T.D.
Hi nice friends!
I get so confused sometimes – and I don't just mean when Daddy and Our Mommy Girl come in the door at the same time and there are so many faces to kiss and legs to rub against and hands I hope will pet me that I just have to run away and chew on a stuffed toy for a minute. I mean that Mr. Mordred and I have nice names, but two-leggers hardly ever call us by them.
To me, Mr. Mordred is always Mr. Mordred, but Daddy calls him Boy, Big Dog, Murjib, Chauncey, Steve, Lumpy, Drooly, and some other things I forget, and the Girl calls him Smedley, Mr. Droolyhead, Baby, Big E. Dog, Mr. Dog Size Large, and also Steve (they both always giggle when they call him Steve). He's only Mordred when he's been bad, which is sometimes.
I get called Skinny, Posy, Whippety Sue, Poopy Sue, Mogie, Goo, Mozie Moo, Little One, Mozarelli, Puppatita, Morzuki and…oh, there are new ones all of the time, but I know they mean me if they say it in the special high-up voice. And no matter which one it is, I will come running as fast as my fast, fast legs will carry me because if someone is calling my name, then someone is thinking of petting me!
Some pet dogs get their names called because their Mommies want to go dancing with them. Yesterday Daddy was reading from the grey pieces of paper that there are some Mommies (mostly Mommies) who like doing this so much that they join clubs to do this with other Mommies and their dogs, but that sounds too silly to be made of the truth!
xoxoMorgane
