Strange Days In Pomerania

Things have been busy around here, and my sporadic contributions to the blog community have reflected it.  Despite having a number of demanding issues on my over-flowing plate, the stars have aligned and sent me a sign that it’s time to re-enter the collective consciousness of all seven of my faithful readers.  For the detail oriented among you, the specific stars to which I’m referring are located in the Galaxy Pomerania.

Ancient Greeks first named the Galaxy Pomerania.  They assigned the stars to the deity Fluff Yapper.  (Image from the creative hands of this very author)
Ancient Greeks first identified the Galaxy Pomerania. They assigned the stars to the deity Phlufficus Yappyus. (Image from the creative hands of this very author)

A man in Redding, California allegedly dog-napped his ex-girlfriend’s Pomeranian “Bear”.  The couple had broken up, but during a brief reconciliation, he made her dinner.  Following the meal, he sent her text messages asking how she enjoyed eating her dog.  He thought the BBQ sauce and Hawaiian buns worked especially well with the dog meat.  Personally, I’ve always felt Hawaiian buns would only taste delicious if you had the good fortune to be eating them in Maui.  Then again, I’ve never had one topped with a steaming helping of “Pulled Pomeranian” slathered in a Memphis-style sauce, so I’ll try to keep an open mind.

Meanwhile, in another part of California, a young lady named Paris Hilton paid $13,000 dollars for a “dog”.  The dog in this case was a miniature Pomeranian which weighs in at a mere 11 ounces or so.  Apparently, Ms. Hilton apparently prefers her pocketbook pups to be considerably smaller than the burgers from Carl’s Jr. which she shills on TV.  Math whizzes will point out that the dog ended up costing Ms. Hilton more than four times what she would have shelled out for an equal weight of Beluga caviar.

Paris, in what might be perceived as a blatant attempt at boosting her Klout rating, has enlisted her legions of fans to help her name the little ball of fluff, which was originally named “Mr. Amazing”.  It’s going to be tough for those scores of 14 year olds to come up with a handle better than that, but I’m sure they’ll try.  When choosing between naming a  celebrity’s pooch or studying for some dumb geography quiz, Ohioteenchik@Twitter put it best when she posted “#No Contest!”.  Experts agree that Paris is unlikely to rename her latest handbag hound “No Contest”, but it was a nice try nonetheless.

There is no evidence to support the possibility that Carl's Jr is considering serving Barbequed bowsers or even Hawaiian style buns. (Cut and paste digital collage handiwork by the author)
There is no evidence to support the possibility that Carl’s Jr. is considering serving barbequed bow wows or even Hawaiian style buns. On a side note, I’m appalled that a young woman of Paris’ breeding would eat without holding her pinky properly outstretched.  Clearly she’s been spending too much time with the common rabble! (Cut and paste digital collage self-expression by the author)

When faced with stories regarding spoiled jet-setters, small, yappy dogs and deceitful culinary practices, I find myself becoming a tad philosophical.  For instance, fate brings two Pomeranians into the world, one to a soon-to-be-wealthier breeder, the other to a loving owner with incredibly bad taste in boyfriends.  One dog has fairly simple goals in life; stay away from the new boyfriend and try to look tough (as in chewy and packed with gristle).  The other Pomeranian, while decidedly better off, has a more complicated existence.  He has to look cuter than the Chihuahua (which is admittedly pretty easy), to stay quiet when Mommy’s on the cell, avoid excessive eye boogers, and most importantly, don’t ever, ever shit in a Louis Vuitton bag.

On a speculative note, I wonder whether the wannabe chef boyfriend will eventually try to rekindle things with his lady friend (assuming a condition of his eventual parole doesn’t require him to stay at least 500 feet away from her and any of her pets).  The diehard romantic in me can’t help but imagine there’s still a spark there, that these kids still have a chance at true love.  Like any guy though, he’ll have to deal with a woman’s uncanny ability to remember even the smallest past transgression.

Cmon Baby, you're not still sore about the dog are you?!  By the way, that Teddy Bear looks pretty tender.  (Image from telegrafi dot com)
Cmon Baby, you’re not still sore about the dog are you?!  By the way, that Teddy Bear still looks pretty rare. (Image from telegrafi dot com)

I was slightly disappointed that these two stories hadn’t been about a more comically named breed.  Unfortunately, there’s just no way that even Paris Hilton would pay five figures for a labradoodle, though the thought of her trying to lug a 60 pound drooling, love-bug around in a designer bag does create a fun mental image.  As for the culinary aspect, an exhausting web search didn’t yield any recipes which specified a particular breed, so we can assume that only those with the most discriminating palates could tell the difference between a chicken-fried Chow Chow and a blackened Barkless Basenji.