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Cody The Amazing Wonderdog

Cody the Amazing Wonder Dog is Dr. Hormone's famous side kick. Cody is a 37 pound 10  year old Cocker Spaniel, who is "Maturity Challenged." Cody the amazing Wonderdog! In spite of intensive  efforts to house train him, and teach him to fetch scotch  and sodas for his owner at the end of the day, Cody has  remained in the shallow end of the pond. He lives in the world of an obnoxious stupid little puppy. He often stands in the yard and barks at the sky during any summer storm, until it has passed. This, sometimes for hours.    

I'm quite sure that I will hear from the ASPCA at some point regarding my remarks, but on the darker days of my life I often find solace in the vision of Cody sitting quietly, in the corner of my living room...stuffed and varnished. I even consulted with the fine people at to see if they could offer some advice, but alas, Cody was already too large physically to attempt such an experiment. I even considered renaming him "Thumbelina" just to hurt his feelings!

This is a dog that defies the term "Pet." Cody can be counted on to stink like a bag of dirty laundry within an hour of his bath, piddle in great yellow ponds all over my patio, scratch and suck at his neutered sack in the middle of the night, until shoes are thrown and everyone is awake. He will repeatedly sneak into the kitchen and pilfer the cat's food after he has inhaled his own bowl of grub. Screaming at him to vacate the kitchen only gets results after he wolfs down the last morsel of cat food, and is chased out of the house at the threat of being beaten into the next world. 

I ask...where the hell is the "Man's Best Friend" loyalty in all that?

I began to exact at least some vengeance with the little mutt when I acquired an electric dog grooming kit with all the fancy attachments. I convinced my wife that the end result of his first haircut at my hand was an accident. I deliberately cropped him to look like a cross between an ugly Poodle and a gay Lion with a Mohawk. The wife played along as a good sport during College football season when we "Moosed" his frocks and put war paint on him for the F.S.U. Seminoles games. Man's best friend!

Over the years I have mellowed in my frustration with this miserable little overgrown floor mop. I have learned to stop fussing over his ambition to defecate on my patio in complex little piles that if collected, could provide enough fecal fuel to operate the New York Taxi industry or fertilize most of the corn fields of the state of Iowa. I would have had less maintenance if I bought a circus elephant! I began to affectionately call him the "Filth Bucket" and " Mr. Crap Factory" 

In the early days I would rant and howl at him while I hosed his fresh dumps off of the deck with the garden hose. I have since given up on the hosing ritual, for fear of water-logging my deck to the point of rotting the wood. These days, I simply wait for his turds to sun dry, and then I don a pair of older shoes designated for crap kicking and go play a game of solo soccer, where I boot the dried specimens into the shrub planter that runs alongside the deck.

One day, a small miracle occurred. Cody dropped a little pile in a most creative design. When I first discovered it, I almost kicked it away and destroyed it. Then I looked down and to my surprise I realized that Cody had made a fecal deposit on the deck that resembled with the most accuracy, a likeness of the letter "A" from the ancient Greek alphabet. I could hardly believe my eyes!

Over the next few weeks, I monitored his work. Gradually, it progressed from simple "Dairy Queen" swirls into remarkable likenesses of various alphabet symbols. I began to encourage Cody to read the Sunday morning paper with me. He would rest his chin on my leg and follow along as I read the Editorial pages aloud. He found the sports section to be of great interest.

Cody the artistSlowly, Cody mastered the alphabet and in time, the construction of small sentences. I watched with great pride as this former fur ball nemesis transformed into a colleague with whom I could exchange thoughts and ideas! He practiced his communication skills by leaving me notes and requests written from his sphincter.

            "I need water."         "Let's play ball."      "Can I screw the cat?"    

             "Why don't I have testicles like the Retriever next door?"

One day, I stepped out to the patio to discover a word which seemed to be written in an ancient Germanic language. I was so shocked, that I almost failed to record it to film. I wondered: " Could Cody be more than just an incredibly talented canine? Could he instead, be a reincarnated soul holding the knowledge and learning of his past life inside of the smelly little flea bitten torso he now inhabits?

My mind began to race...did I know Cody in a past life? was he a long lost friend or relative? Could he be the reincarnation of Attila the Hun? Ghandi? Would GNice cuthandi take a dump on my patio?


Patio Feces Art As A Career                                                                               

I mused at the idea of employing Cody into a career of artistic fecal sculpturing. Why not?, Christo and Maplethorpe and many other liberal pinko pseudo artists have made a career of looting government grants for "shit art" which has certainly offended many of Americans who involuntarily paid the bill for such worthless drek.

Why shouldn't I do my American duty to loot money from the US Treasury for my crap art? (Please see my cartoon page on this website.)

I aggressively focused on Cody's diet, knowing that the food he ate, would play a significant role in his ability to "form" his work. He was put on a diet of soft and bland cereal in order to be able to pass nice soft formable stools which Cody would excrete in his now classic "Dairy Queen" style as well as turds that would bend as many of the alphabet letters do. I even consulted with the Stool Fairy for advice.

Cody needed help to form his letter "O's" and "S's" His "O's" often resembled "D's" and the "S's" looked like "Z's."

The flatulence from this new feed was unbearable. While my wife raged about the entire concept of recruiting the dog into an art career at the expense of our simple lifestyle, I continued to placate her with promises of earlier retirement, and more new found income. Still the dog farts complicated our romantic endeavors. It's difficult to be romantic when the room smells like a barn full of sick horses.

I eventually fashioned a small cardboard box with straps which I strapped to Cody's hind quarters. It funneled to a small square hole which forced Cody's crap to flow out in a cube shape tube. I called it Cody's Cubism period. Things started to get tough. A relative of Picasso wrote to me and threatened a copyright infringement suit. I eventually surrendered the idea of Dog Crap Cubism. They weren't that pretty anyway. Cody the throw rug

After a few months Cody's bowels changed and he failed to produce the nice alphabet work he was able to do only weeks earlier. I tried to persuade him to move the turds into alphabet letters and sentences as he had done before, but he refused to cooperate. He would have nothing to do with pawing his crap around on the patio in order to spell words. His last great fecal production was a period piece that developed over a timeline of about 4-6 weeks. 

He eventually created a word, unknown to far as I know, that looks a lot like a name of a prescription drug. I looked for its definition on the internet for several days and finally gave up, assuming he had simply lost his mind, or was merely messing with me the entire time.

I returned to kicking the turds off the deck with my crap kicker shoes, and dreaming of mounting him on a board in the corner of the living room. Stupid little overgrown throw rug...

Almost,   Hormone

Stuffed at last



click here to see the Fecal Art Gallery