My name is Wolfgang Von Blitzkrieg. I am Sam Jones’ miniature German schnauzer and my friends call me Blitz. My master is having one of his semi-weekly manic/depressive fits, which he thinks can be cured by buying himself a toy, so he’s shopping for a new motorcycle on the Internet. He calls it research; I don’t believe him. So, here we are; the deadline for our column, Almost Fiction, is past due and he has yet to write a single word.

In the past we have written about our adventures out on the road in our Harley sidecar but being a selfish human he takes all the credit and never gives me a mention. Longtime readers of our column might remember the good camping spot in Utah, the berry pie in Oregon and the German food in Milwaukee; I was responsible for finding all of them. He says it is unprofessional to quote an animal or admit he gets most of the really good ideas from a dog. Yeah, right. Working just as hard as he does, I sit on a chair right next to him while he reads my mind. Only occasionally do I indulge in catnaps. Oh jeeze, did I say that? I hate cats.

Having gone off the deep end, I can see on the computer screen that he is now looking at a new Italian Ducati. And where does he think he is going to put me? Now, I ask you, have you ever seen a Ducati with a sidecar? I should reach up, fake a stretch and hit delete.

Oh, oh, now he is looking at an Italian Vespa. He’s staring at a photo of a long-legged woman who has installed a basket on the back of her scooter for her fuzz-mop dog. Women love those fuzz-mop creatures; why, I’ll never know. I’m a real dog, bred to hunt down and dispatch mice, rats, squirrels and vermin of all varieties. What the heck does a fuzz-mop do, dust the floor as he walks?

His interest in this Vespa thing came as a result of a guy on the Internet putting together a ride/tour from New York City to San Francisco on Vespas—“See the USA at 40 miles-an-hour” is the tagline. We’ve already been in New York and San Fran, we’ve ridden at more than 120 mph and he thinks we can put up with 3,600 miles at 40 mph. Who is he kidding?

Good. He is now looking at the new Indian motorcycle. There’s a sidecar company that makes a copy of the Indian sidecar from the 1930s. It’s a real beauty, all chrome and fringe with full- valance fenders. Now there is a rig of which we could be proud.

“Yap-yap-yap-yap-yap.” Wait a minute; I’ll be right back. The two Chihuahuas next door are raising hell. It’s almost time for the mailman. I’ll go see. It’s my job to scare him to death.

I’m back. False alarm. Those stupid Chihuahuas wouldn’t know a mailman from a UPS driver. They were barking at some kids on skateboards.

What happened to the Indian with the sidecar? Now he’s looking at electric bikes? A Zero and a Brammo—have you lost your mind? If he thinks he can harness me up like an Alaskan sled dog to pull his ass home when he exceeds its range and runs the battery flat, he has another think coming.

Good; they didn’t last long. New website. A sidecar for his BMW is interesting. He likes that bike but I don’t much care for it. It’s a solo machine and he never takes me with him when he rides it. I get pet sat at his friend Mark’s house. He’s a good guy but he has a small yard and I can never figure out when the mailman is coming. When we call him on the phone Sam always starts the conversation by saying, “Mark, Mark, Mark.” I have to laugh. To me the words sound like a barking poodle with a harelip.

The sidecar that attaches to the BMW is a good-looking rig, very sleek and fancy. I could ride in it. Come on. I have standards too. When we go out for a cruise I wear my Doggles (goggles for dogs—don’t be so lazy; Google them), and my leather coat. We are extra cool and attract a lot of attention. Let’s face it, 80 percent of all the female companionship Sam gets is because of me and how we look in the sidecar rig.

It goes something like this: “Oh, look at the great-looking dog in the sidecar. Isn’t that cute.” As she walks over and starts to give me a pat, Mr. Wonderful says, “Hello my dear. Have you ever ridden in a sidecar?” And the next thing we know I’m sitting on a pretty woman’s lap and Sam is flying the chair making her giggle and scream in delight like a kid at Disneyland.

The last such meeting lasted a couple of months, but there was an argument about her cat, she got pissed, put on her clothes and left in such a rush she forgot her underwear. What is it with women and cats? I hate cats. Nasty animals; always shedding and that cat box thing; jeez, why would anyone keep cats? Schnauzers don’t shed and we do our business outside.

A Russian Ural motorcycle with a sidecar. Wow! Look at that thing, all camouflaged, a luggage rack, spare wheel, gas can, extra lights and shovel. With the shovel we could bury the squirrels I catch. I hate squirrels. They’re nothing more than a rat with a fuzzy tail. But look at that Ural sidecar. What a beast. Wow, it’s a Russian copy of a World War II German sidecar. I knew it was cool. German military stuff is the best.

My great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather came from the Fatherland. He was a champion schnauzer with lots of cups, blue ribbons and trophies. The family crest says, “Point a German schnauzer east and he will invade Poland.” I don’t rightly know what that means but it sounds cool.

I doubt if Sam is really going to replace our Harley sidecar but he might. He gets in these strange moods. If it’s a Vespa we’ll be travelling at 40 mph, if it’s an Indian we’ll be styling and if it’s a Ural sidecar we will be invading Poland.

Sorry, I have to go; the mailman is here … “BARK-BARK-BARK-BARK!”


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