Monday

Oct. 10

Calendar just got a dog-actually we stole it from a nearsighted old woman who feeds field mice in the park.

Hey, hey, hey: Before you indict Calendar, hear us out. The harridan deserved it. She’s always talking to the dog as if it were a person: discussing hot-button political issues, making lascivious comments about young, virile passersby, relaying off-color jokes.

Look, bottom line is you can’t own a dog, you possessive hag. Stop living in the 19th century South, you anti-abolitionist ass. Dogs can roam wherever they wish, enjoy the company of whosoever they desire and are entitled to exercise their right to assembly. Under a democracy, dogs are free, just like albatrosses.

It’s called the Bill of Rights.

Anyway, we named the dog-which is actually a Tasmanian Wolf and thus not a dog at all-Joshua Redman, playing at Sheraton City Center (150 W. 500 South) at 7 p.m.

Joshy, as Calendar likes to call him, is just such a sweetheart and so health-conscious!

We’ve trained him to be vegan, so he eats only tofutti ice cream bars, garbanzo beans, 9-grain bread and steamed taro root. He wheezes a lot and his gas smells like a Luxembourgian Schvitz, but he’s so docile and good-natured that he must be in picture-perfect health.

Strange thing is, Joshy has started to molt…among other things. His fur is coming out in clumps, as we just said, but Calendar has also noticed that his teeth are turning periwinkle and his eyeballs have started to sink into their sockets.

We figure he’s fine, though. He hasn’t said anything to the contrary. Yeah, as far as Calendar knows, our dog’s happy as a clam at a…clam soiree…in autumn.

That stupid old woman keeps knocking on our door and asking if we have her dog. Of course, Calendar tells her no, but she’s a tenacious old bag, and we think that she can smell her friend, what with her heightened sense of smell and all.

Maybe Calendar should shatter her patellas, Tanya Harding style. That’d learn her to snoop around in Calendar’s bizniss.

We’ll get on that, just as soon as we finish our short courtroom drama about a dog wrongly accused of munching on homework. The title of our pilot, told from the homework’s perspective: The Robot Ate Me, playing at Kilby Court (741 S. 331 West) at 7:30 p.m.

Soon we will be rich as Paul Reiser. Calendar’s just biding our time. Ah, “Mad About You.” Your reruns always leave us in stitches.