I Saw A Werewolf Drinking a Clearly Canadian at Trader Vic’s—His Hair Was Perfect (awoo!): A 90s Odyssey Part Five

My feelings toward dogs are pretty uncomplicated: I have loved them always. Our, and I mean humanity’s, relationship with dogs is old and maybe a little more complicated than pure love, but we are probably hopelessly bonded for the rest of time.


The immortal John Candy as Barf the Mawg, half man half dog–“I’m my own best friend.” Perfection.

How close is that bond? Sometimes it’s so close that we turn into each other. I don’t mean how you think to yourself how much Darlene down the street resembles her poodle—how they seem to visit the same hair stylist and request the same permanent, and even have the same sharp nose and vacant dark eyes and seem high strung enough to probably see the same therapist. No, not that kind of turning into each other over time, which seems a quite natural stage of pet ownership. I mean the other kind. Yeah, that kind.

The werewolf kind. Continue reading