Alas, the old dog has taken himself for a walk. It happens with exasperating regularity.
But he's back to deliver on a VERY old promise.
The aliases:
Wicket,
Wickie,
W,
Wickels,
Winkle,
Winklemeier,
Winky,
Tinky,
Chinky,
Stinky,
Stink Monster Flea,
Wink Monster,
Wink Monster Flea,
Wickie Poodle,
Wickie Baby,
Monster,
Monster dot com,
Dog,
Dogma,
Dogmire,
Dog Tired,
Junior Burger (no pickle),
Junior,
JB,
Tibetan Warrior,
Kujo,
Sparky,
Spark plug,
Spanky,
Bubba,
Snoop Dog,
Angus,
Little Dude,
Cosmo,
Gizmo,
Skippy,
Zippy,
Zippo,
 Wine Dog,
Bat Dog,
Cat Dog,
Cat Dog with Goldfish Tendencies,
The Mayor of Woodland,
Mr. Wicket,
Mr.,
Sheldon,
The Most Interesting Dog in the World.

There are more, but as you might guess, he'd have to kill you if they were disclosed. Perhaps someday . . .

 

Chocolate ails

Greetings, fellow followers of the "W"! The mayor has been away far too long! But now he's back where he belongs -- on Woodland and IN CHARGE!!!

Where to begin . . . Wickie's summer calendar was booked solid. This last campaign season was the most contentious ever. Our lad pounded the pavement, pressed the flesh, sniffed under every bush for votes. It turns out the Sheriff had become more popular than ever (in a more-to-love sort of way). But the mayor, being the veteran warrior that he is, took nothing for granted. Mr. Wick reached out to all by greeting the people at the video store, bat-dogging up and down every avenue, sharing ice cream with his people on summer evenings and face-barking every night at twilight.

At the end of the summer, the election was by won two votes. Your mayor remains the mayor! He couldn't have done it without his faithful followers, the believers in his message: "A Boulevard Wheat in every beer fridge, and a peach cobbler in every pie freezer!" It turns out two of the cats next door defected from the feline ranks and to this day howl at his Honor's door.

With autumn came the change of the season, and moderation to our hero's demeanor. It was time to put away Wink-Monster-Flea and return to collegial Mister. The fur-osity of the contest had brought out the worst in our brave hound. So a change was was called in from the pen. First a much deserved trip to the spa. Finally, three growlers of his favorite ale were delivered on Halloween. Ah yes, 2010 was the year of the perfect autumn -- warm sunny afternoons, the smell of turning leaves and (ahem) SeeYouLator dopplebock, cool crisp evenings around the fire pit, roasting hot dogs and melting S'mores. Wickie wished these days would never end.

The holidays rolled through with much ado. He had visitors to meet and greet, a young rogue runaway to track down, a surprise appearance by Grandma, and a Christmas tree that refused to remain vertical. As promised in the campaign, Santa delivered and Wickie's people were all filled with the joy and hope of the season. Surrounded by his people, the Mayor's year had ended as his best ever.

What was a glorious and beautiful 2010, quickly chilled at the dawn of 2011. Wickie's beat, the Avenue of the Woodland, suddenly snapped into a frozen tundra. Day after day of sub-freezing temps, week after week of a sort-of-dry-snow-not-suitable-for-making-snowmen had soured our leader. His golf game suffered.

Then, miracle of miracles . . . Boulevard came through on their greatest of all Smokestack Series -- Chocolate Ale!!! Tremendous ale, infused with Elbow chocolate turned out to be seriously good. Our boy was once again young. As you can see, our beloved Junior Burger got his groove back and is scratchin' at the door.

Lemme at you spring!!!

P.S. Stay tuned for the next blog which will list every known alias Wickie has used in the last five years. You won't want to miss it.

The Pup Crawl

With apologies to Lord Tennyson, in the spring a young Tibetan warrior's fancy lightly turns to, well, thoughts of a nip of the grape. Love? Bah! Two paws of single malt, now you're talkin'!

And so the boys loaded up for a . . . ROAD TRIP!!! That being said, about all they could put together was a couple of gallons of petrol. So they were limited to friendly confines of River City. No worries. This was the night of the annual Pup Crawl. There would be drinking, dancing, howling at the moon and the ceremonial wearing of the lampshade.

Each loaded up their travel humidor with their favorite maduros and hit the road. The mayor drew the short scoobie and had to drive. Good thing. Some of these other characters get rather reckless when the party lamp is lit. The only cause for concern is Wickie's personal disdain for windshields. He'd rather put his chops into the wind. Try staying in your lane with your head out the window :-P

All went well. No one landed in the dog house and there were only a few minor injuries when they encountered some cats having a séance in the middle of the street attempting to channel Morris. Mostly, there were bloodshot eyes, excessively wet noses and long periods of uninterrupted sleep.

Days later, when the boys recovered, they were on the twilight bark, calling for the hair of the dog.

Mister Salutes the Grad

The mayor graduated from nocturnal correspondence school, last in his class (hey, somebody has to!).

Nevertheless, he knows the blood, sweat, and tears that follow matriculation. Those endless over-caffeinated all-nighters. Those bleary-eyed, sleep-deprived seven a.m. lectures. Those random highlights in used textbooks.

It was the best two and a half weeks of his life.

Congratulations!!! Mister couldn't be prouder of you if he were one of a twelve pup litter.

For all you do, this blow-up-grad-with-a-blow-up-bone is for you.

What a Character

Granted, it took almost eight hours to smoke. Getting it lit was the hard part :-P But when it was done . . . it was fabulous! It was smokey, juicy, tender, mouthwatering . . . swine. Mister chowed on the bone for almost an hour. He finally collapsed and passed out from calcium overload.

Later, he met the boys for a drink. They talked of politics, good vodka, sports, queen Spanish olives, orange cats, and pork butts. There's no question, Wickie lived high on the hog today.

Well, perhaps not that high.

Why Can't We All Just Get Along?

It's common anymore, during demure economic times, to see contention for spindly resources. And so it was earlier this evening when the Council on Woodland convened to discuss much needed improvements and from where the scratch might come. You should know that during such conclaves, the Mayor always enjoys the best chair. But tonight, well, it just wasn't to be. Tonight, the Sheriff was in town. And he was in no mood to compromise.

Just as we were getting started, the Mayor wheeled and noticed the startling breech of protocol. None of us had seen anything like this. But instantly the tilt was on. The Mayor barking at the Sheriff. The Sheriff hissing at the Mayor. Those of us in attendance knew that one can't stop such a row, we could only hope to contain it. Just as things looked like they might settle down, the Sheriff said those magic words that one must never say to a Tibetan Warrior . . . "drop kick".

At that point they were out of the chair, under the chair, and finally rolling in the ivy. It's a wonder someone didn't lose an eye . . . or perhaps some nose skin.

These things have to happen every once in a while. It clears the air, settles things down.

We can only hope.

Six Days, Five Nights

When last we saw Mister, he was trudging off to "the spa". When he returned, he was remarkably more humble. He was a happy puppy for several days . . . until the cats arrived.

We can see the strain of restraint in his face when the cats camp out on his door step. His innards turn icy cold and he is astonished at the calmness in his thinking. After all, he tried to eat the painter and the handyman. But now, the cats seemed to be swarming. They've been trying to encircle him, a vicious feline trap. But he is experienced, wily.

Thus far, the tilt is a stalemate.

Meanwhile, the days have turned warm and sunny. The effects of Beale and the French Quarter have mostly worn off. The Mayor has taken to surveying his domain . . . which is about four houses in either direction.

Not to worry, he usually comes back.

Happy St. Wickie O'Quigley's Day

Twas the night before St. Patty's Day
Double Aught Chi was called to duty
His assignment to ride on a float
And dance like an Irish cutie.

Mister knew it must be a bad joke
Yet he donned a top hat and a green wig
He moonwalked and square danced
and performed an Irish jig.

Sidewalks lined with cheering fans
Parents and kids all clad in green
He didn't see any bad guys
or drunken felons acting obscene.

The parade came to an end
His exact mission never clear
Perhaps cause young Xian Sheng
Drank too much green beer!

Now he must go undercover
Dry out for a few days
Perhaps some time spent in rehab
Will change his evil spy dog ways.

The Mayor is Closer than he Appears

Mister is a complicated, complex and cryptic canine. He's not nearly as monochrome black and white as he appears at first blush. There is a muddled labyrinth containing many shades of gray on the inside, not to mention various hues of pink on the under side.

At first glance, he could be mistaken for a docile homebody content to merely nap on the couch. Au contraire, mon frere! No one, I mean no one, enjoys his Saturday morning outings as much as the honorable Mister Wickie. As the mayor of Woodland, he never misses an opportunity to meet and greet with his people. He feels it is his mayoral duty to check the pulse of his constituency. While other Shih Tzus with far inferior sensibilities and a much lesser sense of adventure are content with a morning spent lounging at the spa, Xian Sheng insists on getting a big whiff of the state of affairs in the hamlet of Gladstone.

Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays this courier from the swift completion of his appointed rounds. His majesty scours one end of Happy Rock to the other, and on rare occasions even fords the river and crosses state lines. He locates his citizenry at HyVee, House of Lube, Ripple Glass, Majestic dry cleaners, Lowe's, the car wash/Italian restaurant, Target and Walmart. No regal outing is complete without a trip through Sonic.

The carhops recognize him when he pulls in and without fail, he always orders "the usual" ... . . plain junior burger, no pickle.

Wicket, Mr. Wicket

The Bond Girls

The first thing Mister noticed was their eyes. They are as blue as a Caribbean lagoon. Each vixen a devastating canine masterpiece. They mysteriously appear and disappear at the most unexpected times. These women are of the highest pedigree. They are untouchable to most, but to Double Aught, they lured him. He came to know them as Octo Puppy, Puppy Galore, Plenty O'Puppy, and Money Puppy.

Slowly, they drew him in and thawed his heart of stone. Whenever they saw him, they came running. Each of them offering hours of boundless pleasure that took his mind back to happier days. The days of Louisburg. The days of the Manchurian Hairless. He was obsessed with them. He had to escape every time he heard their siren call. He would, on occasion, slip into their villa, looking for them.

That's when we noticed him tracking the deer.

Double Aught Chi Spy

Perhaps we should shed some light on Mr. Wicket's past. Before he came to us, he was pressed into service as a stealth operative -- hiding in plain sight. He acquired many of his now finely crafted skills that cloak him as a most valued agent. He works alone, his razor sharp olfactories never missing the slightest waft of wanton skulduggery. Wicket's first cover was cohabiting with a pastry chef and her roommates in a suburban flat. Throwing himself into the trajectory of danger, he relentlessly hounded in search of Victoria and her many secrets. There were interminably long and lonely days in the field, but in the end, the Chef was able to quietly escape only to reappear in Jersey. Wicket's mission was accomplished.

Next there came a short deployment in the cultural metropolis of Lenexagrad. Whether he had gone mad from his previous assignment is subject to continued debate. The haunting voices inside would not relent. His obsession with finished wood and the suspicious invaders within eventually lead to his estrangement with her benevolent majesty. Rather than sentencing Double Aught Chi to the traditional non-lead role on the dog sled that always comes with separation from the service, Xian Sheng was offered a suicide mission . . . to gather intel on the mysterious deer of the Northland.

When he stepped off the transit, the scorch of disaffection had acutely darkened his heart. Never again would he allow himself to be submissive. Never again would he let someone in. His only solace was to throw himself into his work . . . and to turn to the bottle.

Many anxious days lay ahead.

A Troubled Past

The early days in the Northland were confusing and foreign. What was this strange place, Woodland? A tsunami of change ravaged Wicket. His nights engulfed in snappy repartee and political discourse at the pub. He quickly fell into a funk of sleeping and bingeing, and more sleeping.

A curse of his refined tastes, honed over the many years, only champagne dulled the pain. Everything irritated him. Especially the UPS man. Nothing boiled his Mandarin blood faster than the shifty stranger in brown shorts. The rage washed over him like a sea of molten lava that never ebbed.

Known in the clandestine services as "Double Aught Chi", Wicket poured himself into his work. He tortured and teased every animal and ornament he could get his paws on. He shredded each with the fury of a Tibetan sand storm, then tossed them aside, groaning and slobbery.

Then one day, four blue-eyed Australian beauties magically appeared and changed everything.