The Impish Impulse That Pulsates Through Strangers

Not a day goes by, it seems,  when I'm not pestered by at least one seemingly well-intentioned stranger asking me: "What's your all-time favorite New Yorker cartoon about dogs?" 

Without hesistation, I tell the questioner: "It was one of the New Yorker's rare two panel cartoons.  In the first panel, there's a boy who appears to be drowning in a river.  His dog, a collie, is looking at him worriedly from the riverbank.  The boy shouts to the dog, "Lassie!  Get help!"

In the second panel, Lassie is laying on the couch in a psychiatrist's office.

*****

That cartoon imparts to me one important message: Yes, dogs do have issues that they need to work through sometimes.

*****

Lately, I've been questioning one of my own issues: impulsiveness.

Sometimes, my spur of the moment decisions are not, in retrospect, the wisest.

For instance,  back in 1995, when I decided at 3 a.m., to get my first and only tattoo.  

I liked it at first, but now I'm having second thoughts.  

Maybe I should have put it on another part of my body. 

  

Maybe I should have gone with a traditional tattoo parlor-style illustration (like a hula girl, a dragon, or a satanic clown).

But, no.  I had to be different:

A Maverick.  

A Lone Gun.  

The Big Cheese.  

Hondo.  

Hud. 

Hoss. 

The Grand Pooh-Bah.  

Brave Heart.

The Wolf Dancer.

The Horse Whisperer.  

Chromosome Boy. 

The Boss.  

The King. 

The Champ. 

The Prince.  

The Artist.  

Ice, Ice, Baby. 

 Mr. Cool.  

The Kool-Aid Kid.  

The Choosiest Mother. 

The Fifth Dentist.  

Kinky the Hospital Attendant.  

"Ski-Dude."  

The Gipper.  

The Skipper.  

The Professor.  

Thurston Howell, III.  

The Big Swingin' Dick.  

Mr. Goodbar.  

Spartacus.  

The Decider.  

The Hammer.  

The Ball.  

The Peen.

Mr. Clean.  

"Big Mac."  

The Quarter-Pounder.  

Hot 'n' Juicy.  

Butch.  

Truck.  

Car.  

Minivan.  

Scooter.

Officer Friendly.  

Mr. Interesting.  

Donkey Kong.  

The Captain.  

Tenille. 

Bazooka Joe. 

Bungalow Bill.

Dr. Pepper.  

The Squirt.  

The Sprite.  

"Pimpy."  

So, naturally, I chose tattooed words over a tattooed picture.

And I chose to have that tattoo etched into my forehead, instead of a more discreet location, such as on one of my bi-ceps, a shoulder, my buttocks, or my lower back.

Certainly, at the very least, I wish I'd chosen something different than what I chose:

"Ask me about my all-time favorite New Yorker dog-related cartoon." 

But, at the time, 3 a.m., I thought I never get tired of talking about the craziness of dogs.

As it turned out, I was already weary of the subject by the following afternoon.  

In fact, I had to almost immediately concede the point that most dogs are, in fact, pretty normal.

Today's message of hope and courage: If you want to make a permanent point at 3 a.m., make it as vaguely ambiguous as possible.