Okay, so today's entry was supposed to be about me finishing the initial work so that I can start applying the "Getting Things Done" (GTD) system to my life (which, yes, actually is finished). But then last night I celebrated being done by watching The Simpsons, which happened last night to be that early-years episode about Santa's Little Helper, with the lesson that we should all love stupid dogs. And I just laughed my ass off again, for the thousandth time in a row of seeing that episode, for the same reason I think so many other people laugh their asses off when seeing that episode; because I think a lot of us around the world really have had that stupid a dog be a part of our lives for awhile, and we really did love that dog for being that stupid.

I've spent my own life with a series of three dogs, none simultaneously, all of them boxers: there was Tiny, born a year before me, that lived to a very long age indeed (I think I was 14 or 15 by the time she died); then Puff, who tragically died of lukemia at the age of five or so (a common malady among boxers, because of genetic/breeding reasons); and then Fudge, who I only lived with fulltime for a couple of years before heading to college, but then saw every holiday all the way up to just a couple of years ago, when she finally died. And boy, let's make no mistake - Fudge, the last one, was the stupidest of the bunch, and I don't think there's a member of my family that would deny that.

And the irony, of course, is that I think Fudge is probably the one I liked hanging out with the best, spending time with in that wonderful human/dog way that inspires so many of us to own dogs in the first place. And yeah, just like that Simpsons episode, I think it was probably precisely because Fudge was the stupidest one, that she ended up being the most fun one to hang out with. She would just do these things, man, that every couple of minutes would just make you laugh out loud; twisting her ears and head sideways when hearing the doorbell, barking at her own reflection, chasing snowballs during winter and then getting so confused when they'd hit the ground and blend with the rest of the snow. (And she'd stick her nose in the snowy hole, looking for the ball, then look up again and around at her surroundings in confusion, and of course her snout'd be covered with snow, which would just make you laugh and laugh so hard, and pack up another snowball for her to chase, because of course she'd never learn her lesson and would chase snowballs for hours.)

Yeah, so this is the kind of wonderful pleasure to be had from hanging out with a stupid dog. Obsessive readers, of course, will remember that I'm a part-time Taoist (and trying to be a full-time one, but seem to get pissed off a lot more than a Taoist really should); and they'll remember me a couple of years ago talking about wanting to write an actual straightforward, non-ironic guide to just what Taoism is. I still have the notes, frankly, and the first chapter I wrote back then, and really do hope to get back to it in the future sometime. It's called The Book of Bob (no relation to the Church of the Subgenius), and the whole fake premise is that I'm writing this "Tuesdays with Morrie" type nonfiction book about this guy I accidentally met here in Chicago named Bob, who I ended up spending time with, who just accidentally turned out to be the perfect Taoist. That way I can have conversations with him in the book, like Benjamin Hoff does in The Tao of Pooh with Winnie-the-Pooh; he is the accidental Taoist master, almost unaware that he is, while I'm the Taoist student, asking all these questions to him that you're probably wondering yourself as a reader.

Anyway, one of the basic story elements I have planned for that book is that Bob lives in Rogers Park (the northernmost neighborhood in Chicago before hitting the city limits), in one of those cheap-ass apartment buildings up there that open literally right onto the beach. And Bob is also going to be the owner of a stupid dog, a labrador retriever that he has of course named "Lao-Tsu." And so this is a running storyline in the book, the catalyst that leads to so many discussions; that I supposedly get into the habit of stopping by Bob's place at maybe 10, 11 in the morning on weekdays, and we let Lao-Tsu out for a half-hour walk or so, with us walking with the dog along the beach and having our Taoist conversations. And then of course when we get back, Bob invites me to stay while he makes tea, as every good Taoist should; and we sit around a little table and drink it and have even more Taoist conversations.

Even with the book unwritten at this point, I still start giggling every time I think of basing a serious nonfiction book about Taoism around such a storyline. How many great metaphors to be made in Taoist theory tying directly to a stupid dog! A great, big, shaggy, goofy, ball-chasing, beach-running golden dog. Wu-wei...the uncarved block...the power of watching nature...so many of the basic lessons of Taoism I think could be told in a very entertaining, intimate way, through the storyline of these two youngish men meeting for tea and walks along the beach, in this strange northern Chicago neighborhood that's already known for being filled with college students and hippies.

Anyway, so that's why you're reading an entry about dogs, instead of one about GTD - because this damn Simpsons episode got me thinking about the wonderful qualities of stupid dogs again, and made me want to write a little ode to good ol' Fudge - falling asleep on your lap, nicknamed "Yoda" by my brother and me, running into damn trees sometimes, that good ol' stupid and much-missed Fudge.