My Name is Ziggy, aka Donkeypong’s Companion

Wadup, Steemit? My name is Ziggy. Woof, woof. Two years ago, the forum member you know as Donkeypong adopted me into his family. I was a stray dog and can’t remember where I came from, but life has been good since then. I save my long term memory for truly important things, like how I can beat DP at a game of tug-of-war by tugging on the toy with my teeth and then lifting up one paw really quickly to claw it away from him. The highlight of my day, besides family and dinner, is chasing squirrels and rabbits. I almost caught one once.

Today, I’m posting to #introduceyourself as Ziggy and also #introduceyourowner, @donkeypong. He likes to be a bit mysterious, but I’ll spill the beans and tell you what I know…as long as I can lick some of those beans off the floor.

We live in a place called California, which is a promised land of endless roast chicken, dog kibble, and long naps. Plus the aforementioned squirrels and rabbits on the long walks in the hills and on the beach that Donkeypong takes me on a few times a week. My only complaint is that it gets too hot here in summer, so Donkeypong usually gives me a haircut. After adopting me, my family decided to DNA-test my saliva, since was a fun learning experience for the kids + the kit was on sale for $60 on Amazon. What fun it was to know that two of my grandparents were Dobermans, another was a Keeshond, and the fourth was a terrier furball of Yorkish and Scottish ancestry. All rolled into Ziggy.

Scientists say that short-term doggie memory lasts no longer than two minutes. That must be why I didn’t remember what a fart sounded like. Tonight, while my family was eating dinner and I was in the corner chewing a beef stick, I released a bit of gas. It made a crazy whoopee! sound which startled me. My family laughed as I sprang up off the floor, whirled toward the sound, and growled at whatever had made that whoopee noise behind me. But all I saw was a tail running away, faster than I could catch it.

Yes, I’m a bit of a comedian. But I don’t mind people laughing at me. I’ve really come to love people smiling and laughing, whatever the reason.

All I know for sure is that I won the lottery for stray doggies. Donkeypong and his lovely wife have two daughters, aged 8 and 9. They shower me all day long with attention (and occasionally, I also get showered with herbal flea and tick shampoo). At least, I think it’s all day long. I do take a lot of naps. In between naps, there’s eating, there’s squirrel-chasing, and there’s playing with my family, especially my two people sisters. One of them likes to pick me up and smother me with hugs, while the other sister likes to read next to me while I chew on a deer antler that Donkeypong gave me.

My sisters are the ones who named me. I didn’t have a human name when I was adopted, but any self-respecting canine will tell you that a dog’s real name is the smell of his nether regions. Forget biometrics; if you want a foolproof method of checking an individual’s identity, all you need is a dog nose. I don’t want your fingerprint or your retinal scan; just bend over and let me smell your ass. I don’t care if you come in dressed like Elvis; you ain’t foolin’ Ziggy’s nose.

How did I end up with a name like Ziggy? Some say I look like a certain reggae artist. Donkeypong certainly does listen to a lot of reggae along with other kinds of music. And there may be some resemblance. I am proud of my darkness, whiskers, and carefree attitude. Did you know that light-colored dogs at animal shelters get adopted at a far higher rate than black ones? The stray dogs that are euthanized in the gas chamber are disproportionately colored sorts. So don’t get me started on doggie racism.

I’ll tell you one thing: Donkeypong doesn’t give a damn about race. This is a multi-racial family.

My mommy plays the piano. She is a gorgeous lady. Her face and figure remind me of Miss Nicaragua, woof woof, Donkeypong is one lucky dude. But what do I know about bitches? My balls got cut off before I was adopted. Anyhow, if I’m out in the yard and that goddess begins playing the piano, I bark until someone lets me in. Then I crawl under the piano stool where she’s sitting and howl softly to the tune. Which is usually Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. It’s the only piece she knows.

What was I saying? No, I was not named after Ziggy the ganja guy. After they brought me home from the shelter, the first time we went for a walk as a family, I was doing my business on a tree, and then I crossed the sidewalk to a rose bush. It smelled like Eau de Bulldog, so I had to add my scent. Trying my best to walk straight on the sidewalk with my family, I then spied a fire hydrant on the other side where a rat had dragged a piece of moldy bread the night before, so I crossed back again to take a whiz. Zig zag, zig zag, back and forth. “Why don’t we call him Ziggy?” one of the girls said. A cross-urinating legend was born.

I like my name a lot better than Donkeypong’s screen name. Who in the hell names himself after an ass? As I told you before, the important thing is the smell of the ass and not the name. Well, one day at dinner, Donkeypong explained about his name. You see, when he joined the BitShares forum, he couldn’t think of anything better. The one aspect of his identity that he wanted to communicate was his age. And so he thought that people would recognize he was a bit older than the average crypto-head if they knew he had once played computer games like Donkey Kong and Pong.

Hey, those two rhyme, how about…? Been regretting the name ever since, he has, but a brand is a brand. At least no one takes him seriously, do they? He likes to be appreciated, but would prefer if people not be so serious about stuff. There’s enough of that in his day job. Anyone who names himself after animal poo is good enough for me.

I think DP’s real name is Tom, and he works somewhere in Los Angeles that deals with corporate transactions. It’s work he can’t talk about, can’t bring home, because he often helps to evaluate companies involved in mergers: stuff that can change a public company’s stock prices. His clients are paranoid that every employee at the firm could be doing insider-trading (which they don’t). And so he doesn’t use his real name online, nor does he post on Steemit from the office.

The Bruce Wayne half of him found out about Bitcoin in 2013 (it impressed him, but he ultimately dismissed Bitcoin because the mining is unsustainably wasteful), then BitShares (high hopes), and then Steemit (to the moon!). He’s more of a writer than a tech guy, and writing releases his tension. He posts on Steemit after the kids go to bed. Steemit fits him like a glove. Donkeypong was hooked and is betting the Donkey Farm on this Steemit platform.

You see, a part of him loves the rush of working on big deals at his job, but then he comes home and I’ve even seen him get physically sick when he realizes what a tool he is in enabling a corporate, consumer culture that worships greed. That’s how he sees it now. When I feel physically sick, I usually find some grass to chew. And then I spit out the whole mess on the back lawn (which is brown from the drought), sniff it, and sometimes... No, they never let me eat it again.

Donkeypong wants Steemit to go viral because he hates Corporate America and what it’s doing to the world. In his mind, the blockchain represents the ultimate evolution of the peer-to-peer (P2P) economy. Sniff, sniff, did someone say ‘pee’? Donkey-man hopes that Steemit can undercut corporate content providers and create a place where no CEO, editor, or president (to borrow that tagline from another forum member) can tell anyone what to write or post. Where posting and curating can create a real income for average people. In Los Angeles today, he says that the only average, sensible people are homeless and on the street. The place has gone fucking nuts – insane rent, insane traffic, insane tech wannabes, Uber-this, Tesla-that, and foo foo your $100 corn dog with carmelized onions and arugula pesto.

Sometimes, Donkeypong wishes he could just say ‘fuck it’, let his beard grow, wrap himself in an oversized flannel shirt, and sit on a street corner all day holding a coffee can for scratch. That would make more sense than spending another day feeding this predatory corporate system.

But then he saw a street person with a sign saying “Will work for food” (or was it “fud”?). Donkeypong is always generous in helping people out with a few bills or a can of Purina (I mean, people food). But when he went back home that day, he grabbed a sharpie marking pen and wrote himself a new sign. When he works up the nerve, he says he’s going to give it to the guy on the street. It reads: “Will post for money on Steemit.”

[Growling yawn] I’ve become quite drowsy telling this story. Donkeypong’s upstairs making noises with the missus. He stayed home from work today to squeeze out a couple of extra Steemit articles. And do… whatever he’s doing, with that goddess of a wife. For me, it’s time for another nap. There’s this toy I have in the garage that stinks to high heaven because I usually chew on it right after dinner when I still have turkey stew stuck in my teeth. After Donkeypong gives me a hose shower, like I got today, I just can’t wait to go find that toy and roll all over its deliciously rank smell. Something…to dream on…doggie dreams.