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9/10/2009 3:34 AM

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Once upon a time I rode the bus to work. The stop was directly in front of a bakery. Every day I was faced with a choice - spend a dollar on bus fare and keep my job or have a fresh, hot apple turnover.

They say we don't torture.

I think about those times when visiting the pet supply store. I look on as people walk up and down the aisles with dogs on leashes, modern Americans in control until the moment Duke squats near stacks of bean-filled sack beds and leaves a gift for the low cashier on the totem pole.

Who can blame the beast? For an hour or so his nose has been two feet from birthday cake, yet he's not been allowed to touch or taste a thing.

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I've never taken either of our dogs to the store. You can thank me for that foresight in your prayers or by sending a small donation. Trust me when I tell you that you don't want to be at PetPlace on the day the red dog and her big dumb pal, the black one, are running free.

The problem won't be that they're uncontrollable, but that they will not find the sale items to their liking. There will be plenty of rubber objects in the shapes of fire hydrants and mailmen, indestructible bone-like chew pipes and cartoonish metal-studded Harley Davidson fashion collars that many dogs love.

Our dogs are not those dogs.

They don't care much for dog toys, at least not the kind you find at pet supply stores.

Instead, they like hooves.

The mutts like horses hooves so much that they've now memorized the schedule of the C.J.F. (Certified Journeyman Farrier). They have figured out that he, like Santa, often leaves treats for good dogs.

I'm sure there are many reasons to keep hoof trimmings away from dogs, but I'm too slow and tired. Weighed down by carrying a large dead groundhog or worn out from hauling a drippy deer leg, dogs can be caught, leaving me to find yet another hiding place for more dead stuff and the neighbors to wonder. However, in a race between a middle-aged man in muck boots and a dog with a two-acre head start and a hoof chunk in his mouth, bet the four-legger across the board and collect your winnings.

Like my grandmother used to say, there is no catching a dog with a hoof in his mouth.

Since I am, perhaps, the last customer in the county who has not brought his dog to one of the massive pet supply box stores on Master-Mutt Shopping Day, may I offer some advice?

Hooves.

Horses hooves.

Give them a catchy name (Toe Jammers, Nail Biters, Chewy Clips), and they'll fly off the shelves.

By the way, I eventually gave in, spent my bus fare on baked goods and lost that job. The unemployment office was next door to a motorcycle dealership.

And they say we don't torture.

To hear Scott Paulsen's column, visit www.observer-reporter.com. He can be heard each weekday afternoon from 3 to 7 p.m. on 1250 ESPN Radio.

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