The Housemate, intent, as usual, on sullying my reputation, has posted the image above on her Flickr page, along with the caption: “Delphine yearns to be prehensile“.

Something tells me that the Housemate, sloppy grammarian that she is, meant in fact to say that I yearn for my paws to be prehensile, as, according to definition number 2 of the dictionary entry for the term pictured below, I could be the poster pup for prehensility, thank you very much.

Regardless of her meaning, I should like to state publicly, for the benefit of my Housemate and the other unfortunate people who read her blog, take her silly polls and view the poorly composed images on her Flickr page, that I harbour no desire, secret or otherwise, to have paws that function any way other than the way mine do at present.

It is indeed unfortunate that there are in fact members of my species (known in the community as “donkeys”*) who have such desires, and even some who refuse to seek treatment for the condition, claiming they enjoy a higher quality of life as a result (more efficient grooming and the ability to grasp chicken drumsticks more firmly are two of the more commonly cited examples). Nor am I one to dispute the usefulness of a a prehensile paw in the case of arthritic male dogs who are no longer able to raise their legs to urinate without physical assistance.

But to state that I am a member of this reviled minority is the biggest lie since the accountant at the Emperors Club assured Eliot Spitzer that paying by cash would make his activities untraceable.

*donkey=dog + monkey

This Halloween I’ll be wearing a costume of white fur with tan spots. Yeah, just like the one in the photo above. Not for me any of this nonsense about dressing up as a shark or an elephant.

American dogs have no self respect. Nor do Indian dogs, apparently.

The next person to write and ask whether I am the Fake Steve Jobs will be getting a virus neatly planted on their hard drive by one of my hacker friends. (Don’t believe I have hacker friends? Just try me).

I’m still trying to understand why Daniel Lyons, the Forbes reporter who was outed (login sadly required) today as the man behind The Secret Diary of the Steve Jobs by the New York Times, used a mug shot of a terrier to illustrate the post about the unmasking. An exploitative and cowardly move, even by human standards. What’s even more insulting is that people are taking the plug-ugly Pets.com mascot lookalike in the photo for me! Disgusting. I’m seriously considering reporting this to Animaux Sans Frontières.

More humiliating photos of me over at the housemate’s Flickr page. If it’s so wrong to shoot somebody in the back, shouldn’t it be wrong to shoot somebody from the back too?

And apparently I’m being put on a diet, all because the housemate wouldn’t fork out the money for a proper lens that doesn’t stretch everything horizontally. There’s no way I’m that hippy in real life.

There should be a law against people posting these kinds of photos of you on Flickr without your written permission. And calling it “doggie porn”, as I overheard the housemate saying to somebody today. I hate that new camera.

The housemate has a new camera, and spent part of this morning chasing me around trying to photograph me (I really need an agent). She posted this one on Flickr. Have to admit it isn’t half bad.

Snooping around on her MacBook the other day, I also discovered that this photo was used in the latest Global Voices internal newsletter (who even knew they had one), with the caption “Here’s Delphine preparing to enter a wet fur contest.” Pretty damn demeaning, if you ask me. How do you think she’d feel if I released photos of her in the shower? Gotta get me some of those.

Here’s my poem:

The Seventy per-cent Solution: A Valediction
for J Paul Serengeti

What can I do to prove to you
That I really am a dog?
(Damn you, New Yorker!)
Show loyalty? (By blogging daily? Answering every comment?)
Fetch? (Tried that; got sued by these people)
Sniff the behinds of other members of the dogosphere? (Would try it if I knew how)
“canineboy88″: a beguiling handle
And I, a novice in the ways of instant messaging,
Allowed you to lead me on.
You found my dog-talk “authentic”;
I found yours endearingly lame.

Who knew the answer would arrive
In a heart-shaped box?
“Be my Valentine!” your card read,
“Quit pretending you’re a dog and marry me!”
70% cocoa. Bittersweet.
It wasn’t easy swallowing that last praline.
But at least now, perhaps you will believe that I am a dog.
Or I was a dog
And stop hounding me.

Took a break from blogging today and let the housemate photograph me instead. Note my crossed paws.

J. Paul Serengeti (my best friend), who is homeless and therefore gets to go whereever she wants, has been to these places and she says it’s no picnic. Folks are getting shot, J. Paul tells me. Gang activity is on the rise (gangs, J. Paul says, are the equivalent of what we in the dog world call “packs”). After discussing these matters through the fence today, the two of us got really depressed, though within five minutes we came back to our senses and remembered that we’re only animals. As J. Paul likes to say, “Give us the vote — then we’ll give a s**t.”