ARTICLE IDEAS
I have the honour of writing a quarterly column for the Pem-Welsh Corgi Assoc of Canada magazine. I have written on such topics (from a humourous perspective) about choosing the corgi as our family breed, whelping puppies, and other such first time experiences. However, I am looking for some ideas for new content for the next few articles and am throwing open the idea vault! :) Anyone have some interesting ideas/tales (tails)/ etc... I am dry on inspiration this summer...(post- Master's program school work this spring)... :) Thanks to one and all for your ideas...send em along!
If I can get it by the editors, I may actually write about our little corgi community here on MyCorgi.com in the fall edition.
Replies to This Discussion
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Permalink Reply by Sam Tsang on
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Hello fellow Canadian! Some of the topics i would like to see:
Different uses of corgi fur
Destination Travel
Flying within Canada
Corgi friendly events around Canada
Herding classes in Canada
Tips of crossing the border with your corgi
Snow tips
That's all i can think of right now. Thanks for mentioning MyCorgi.com, it was started by a Canadian (my wife) :)
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Permalink Reply by John Wolff on
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Yes. Crossing the border with your corgi. I remember it well...
It was a dark and stormy night at the Sumas Customs station -- a quieter, more casual port of entry than the busy I-5 station near Vancouver -- but I was nervous. The day before, we'd slid on in from the U.S. side as slick and easy as the well-oiled bolt of the 9mm Glock automatic resting comfortably in my shoulder holster. I hoped the wide lapels of my dark-blue pinstripe suit would conceal its bulge. Yeah, it'd been easy. Too easy. Something seemed wrong, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. And the American customs agents are not so easy. Unpredictable. What if they asked me to open the trunk? It's often best to hide things in plain sight, but... unbleached white flour? Whoever come up with that brilliant disguise was either smarter than a Border Collie or dumber than an Irish Setter. One thing was sure: he wasn't sitting in the driver's seat right now. I settled back in the plush red leather of the black Mercedes' bucket seats, lit up one of the Boss's long Havana cigars, and tried to look inconspicuous.
Although it was midnight, I put on my dark shades and pulled down my fedora to cover the scar on my forehead -- who knows? Maybe some gung-ho border agent would remember that unfortunate incident with Bebe the Beagle. I didn't want no questions. I glanced over at Big Al, curled up beside the violin case in the passenger's seat. "You'll get us through, wontcha, big buddy?" I asked. He glanced back with his customary sangfroid, tongue hanging half out of his mouth as usual, and said nothing. Al never said much, and nothing ever fazed him. He was either the bravest or the dumbest dog in the world, and I knew he wasn't dumb. Not after that fight with Zeke. I just wished his papers were in better order than my recycling bin. Sometimes they check. I patted the Glock. At least I keep my shots up-to-date...
The queue was moving slowly but steadily. Our turn soon. Outwardly cool, my palms were starting to sweat. Why did Boss insist on three hundred kilos!? The back end was so loaded down, the tires almost scraped the fenders! This was a convertible luxury sports car, not a bloody truck. I was tired of taking orders, bein' treated like an expendable cur. These bigshots never ran any risks, never did any time in the pound. Someday, I told myself, I'd slip my leash, jump the fence, and set up on my own...
The car ahead began to roll. Our turn! I swallowed a dry lump in my throat as big as one of Big Al's beef bones, pulled up to the Customs booth, lowered the window, and looked the agent in the eye.
He was a she. And if she'd been a dog, she could've walked away with best-of-show at Westminster without having to bribe any judges. One look, and my heart did something that would've given my doctor a coronary if he'd known about it. On a pair of stems that would've made a redwood forest jealous, she glided up to the window with all the feline grace of a mountain lioness stalking an easy kill, and in a low voice as smooth and soft as the fur of Al's ruff, started asking the customary questions:
"...and how long have you been in Canada, Mr. Corleone? ... I see. Any firearms or liquor? And are you bringing back more than $300 U.S. of Canadian merchandise? ... Your trunk looks heavily loaded, what do you have back there? ... 300 kilos of baking flour? I see. Oh, that is one SWEET-looking passenger you've got there, what's his name? ... Big Al? Big Al Capone? Oh, I LOVE corgis, and this one looks just killer! May I pet him? .... aw, of course he's friendly... gosh, anybody with eyes like that could get away with murder, just by smiling ... All right, sir, you may proceed. Don't forget to replace that missing license plate."
Yup, it's true: Dogs will get you through times of no money better than money will get you through times of no dogs, and the right kind of dog will get you through anything at all.
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Permalink Reply by Maddy & Keke on
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Now, all the mafia will want to get a corgi.
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Permalink Reply by Angela on
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LOL - Can you just see those big galoots walking around with bunny butts on a leash?
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Permalink Reply by Wendt Worth Corgi's on
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CIA Meaning Corgi Intelligence Agency??
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Gwynnie won't have anything to do with the Mob. She's strictly CIA.
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I had so much fun with this. Here's the final version:
Corgi Noir
Yes. Crossing the Canadian border with your corgi. I remember it well:
A dark night in a small town that knows how to keep its secrets about as well as a drunk knows how to keep a cap on a bottle. I was glad I was just passing through.
The customs station near Abbotsford, B.C. is a quieter, more relaxed port of entry than the busy I-5 crossing near Vancouver, but I was nervous. Something seemed vaguely not-quite-right, and I couldn't put my finger on it. Yesterday, we'd slid on in from the American side as slick and easy as the well-oiled bolt of the 9mm Glock automatic resting comfortably in my shoulder holster (I hoped the wide lapels of my dark blue double-breasted pinstripe suit would conceal its bulge). Yeah, it'd been easy. Too easy. A setup? Could be. It's a dog-eat-dog world, ya don't get to be alpha male by making friends, and all of Boss's enemies were my enemies, too.
And the American customs agents can be unpredictable, suspicious, not all of 'em on the payroll. They can sniff out items as fast as a Welsh corgi can sniff out bacon. What if they asked me to open the trunk? Sure, it's often good to hide things in plain sight, but... unbleached white cake flour!? Whoever came up with that brilliant disguise was either sharper than a Border Collie on meth or dumber than an Irish Setter huffing glue. One thing was sure: he wasn't sitting in the driver's seat right now. I settled back into the plush black leather of the red Mercedes' bucket seats, lit up one of Boss's long Havana cigars, and tried to look inconspicuous.
Although it was midnight, I put on my dark shades and tilted my wide-brimmed fedora down low to cover my scar. Who knows? Maybe some hotshot border agent would remember that unfortunate incident with Bebe the Beagle. I didn't want no questions. I glanced over at Big Al, curled up in the passenger's seat beside the violin case. "You'll get us through, won'tcha, buddy?" I asked. He glanced back with his habitual sangfroid, tongue hanging out of his grin as usual, and said nothing. Al never said much, and nothing ever fazed him. He was either the bravest or the dumbest dog in the world, and I knew he wasn't dumb -- not after the way he framed Mochi the Moocher for that tooth job on the piano leg. Somehow, I felt that with this little guy by my side, I could get through anything. I just wished his papers were in better order than my recycling bin -- sometimes they check. I patted the reassuring Glock. At least I kept my shots up-to-date.
The queue was moving slow but steady. Our turn soon. Outwardly cool, my palms were sweating. My mouth was dry. I took another pull from the half-empty bottle of Scotch under the seat. Why did Boss insist on three hundred kilos!? The back end was so loaded down, the tires almost scraped the fenders. This was a luxury convertible sports car, not a doggoned truck. This was crazy as a coyote on peyote. I was tired of taking orders, being jerked around like an expendable stray. The top dogs never ran any risks, never did any time in the pound. Someday, I told myself, I'd slip my collar, jump the fence, and set up on my own.
The car ahead began to roll. Our turn! I swallowed a lump in my throat as big as one of Al's beef bones, pulled up to the Customs booth, lowered the window, and looked the agent in the eye.
He was a she... and if she'd been a dog, she could've walked away with best-of-show at Westminster without having to bribe any judges. One look, and my heart leapt like a springer spaniel chasing a tennis ball with gravy on it. On a pair of stems that would make a greyhound look slow, she glided up to the car with all the predatory grace of a she-wolf closing in on a cornered rabbit, and in a low voice as soft and smooth as the fur of Al's ruff, started asking the customary questions:
"...and how long have you been in Canada, Mr. Corleone? ...I see. Any firearms or liquor? …And are you bringing back more than 300 U.S. dollars' worth of Canadian merchandise? ...Your trunk looks heavily loaded, what do you have back there? ...300 kilos of cake flour? I see. That’s a pretty big cake, Mr. Corleone.”
“It’s gonna be a pretty big wedding,” I lamely replied.
“Open the trunk, please.”
“RARK!” rarked Al, transfixing her gaze with the Corgi Mind Control Stare.
I tell you, Big Al’s rark carries the kind of authority that usually requires either a .38 or about 38 more pounds of dog. It says, “Play with me! Throw the ball! Give me love -- or food -- and nobody gets hurt!” When Big Al rarks, people listen. And when anybody makes the mistake of looking into his eyes, they're all his.
“Oh, that is one SWEET-looking passenger you have there! Is that a Welsh corgi?
“Actually, he’s a sawed-off shepherd, the latest in family and home protection.”
“Why are his legs so short?”
“Terrible accident with the lawnmower. The vets were able to reattach the paws.”
“How come he doesn’t have a tail?”
“There’s a reason we face the door in an elevator. He didn't know.”
What's his name? ... Big Al? Big Al Capone? Adorable; he looks just killer! May I pet him? .... aw, of course he's friendly... anybody with eyes like that could get away with murder just by smiling." As she scritched his chin, I thought Al grinned askance at me, as if to say, “This is how it’s done, pal. Ya make ‘em an offer they can’t refuse.”
As usual, the female attention was going to the other end of the leash, and for once, I didn't mind.
“All right, sir, you may proceed. Here’s my card. Call me up next time you visit Canada... and don't forget to replace that missing license plate."
It's true: Dogs will get you through times of no money better than money will get you through times of no dogs, and the right kind of dog will get you through anything at all.
Driving south to the monotonous rhythm of the wipers in the Puget Sound rain, I thought about Al and that Gwynnie dame he hangs with. Not big, not tough, not loud, not mean, yet somehow they command as much respect as a hundred-dollar bill -- sailing through life getting everything they want, plus 25% -- more friends than Santa Claus, and no enemies except the vacuum cleaner. How do they do it? Maybe they’re trying to teach me something...
copyright John Wolff 2010
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Permalink Reply by susan on
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This made me spit coffee all over my keyboard..... :)
“How come he doesn’t have a tail?”
“There’s a reason we face the door in an elevator. He didn't know.”
This made me nod in agreement...
It's true: Dogs will get you through times of no money better than money will get you through times of no dogs, and the right kind of dog will get you through anything at all.
Absolutely loved this!!!!!
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John, your amazing!!! 5 Kudos for you. That was great.
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Hallowe'en costume idea for those of you with little girls:
I actually do have a dark blue wide-lapel pinstripe suit and a dark fedora -- hastily purchased at Value Village the day before Hallowe'en -- my daughter was a faerie, to go with the corgi, and we had an extra set of faerie wings, so -- pointy two-tone shoes, white carnation in the lapel, dark glasses, violin case, magic wand, and faerie wings.
If anybody is slow on the uptake and has to ask, you reply in your huskiest Al Pacino voice:
"Ah gif ya tree wishes... an' dat's an offuh ya cain't refyoos..."
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