Hey everybody! It’s me. Beaumont.
I know. I know. You’re wondering where ‘she’ is. Well, all I can tell you is that she’s been actin’ kind of weird these days. Something about those pandas running wild and creating havoc around the globe, or at least something that sounds like panda but kinda rhymes with schizophrenic. Which is a good way to describe how she’s been behaving. One minute she’s all happy and singin’ “All You Need is Love” and the next, she’s cryin’ into her teacup and writin’ sad stories about what’s goin’ down with the pandas.
Take it from this dawg. This too shall pass. It always does. The pandas will go home and the world will keep turnin’.
Anyway, I didn’t want to disappoint y’all by not turning up on the page today. I know how you count on me and seriously, I count on you — because as you can see, counting on her is not always a good idea!
Now, don’t y’all get me wrong. I love my hooman. She takes me for a walk to the park twice a day. She buys me really good treats. She even let’s me use her as my pillow… sometimes.
But, you wouldn’t believe what she did to me yesterday. I mean, it was gross. As in grosser than a dawg rollin’ in horse poop kind of gross.
Anyway, you know how I’m a shaggy dawg and all that jazz. Well, for some reason, she gets all uppity about the dirt I allegedly drag into the house. I say allegedly because she comes to the park too… Know what I mean? Who’s to say it’s not her shoes bringin’ in the dirt instead of my paws?
Well, anyway. She decided that I needed to have my paws cleaned before I could come out of the laundry room into the house.
So, there I am, all set to race into the house, greet my dad with a slobbery ole’ kiss and get a treat and she closes the laundry room door, hauls out a bucket, fills it with water (mostly cold I might add) and makes me put my paws, one at a time, into the bucket so that she can wash them off.
And then, she has to make all these comments about how my paws are a mess and why can’t I stay on the path. Well, let me tell you… if she threw the ball where I thought it was going I might be able to stay on the path. But seriously. Her throwing leaves a lot to be desired. It’s not my fault that in order to fetch it, I have to run through every mud puddle in my path. I mean, really. If I try to skirt the puddles the ball will have disappeared into undergrowth or worse yet, into some other dog’s mouth!
But anyway, back to the paw scrubbing hell she put me through. I mean. Really. Do you now how undignified it is? Paw in. She scrubs the dirt away. Paw out. She dries it. Changes the water. And repeat. And repeat. And repeat. I mean it takes forever! Not to mention being a colossal waste of time. Think about it people. We’re going back to the park later. Does she think the ground will have miraculously dried up? It’s spring in Alberta. Can you spell mud city?
So. Apparently, because I did not wait in the laundry room like she says she told me to, (honest, I did not hear her tell me to stay) and instead raced about the house trying to get all that water off my paws, I am now relegated to spending time behind a gate blocking me into the laundry room.
Please. Please. Please.
Somebody come rescue me.
I mean really. She’s giving a whole new meaning to the phrase, “Keep your dawggone paws off!”
I’d like to tell her to keep her dawggone waterbucket dry!
Shoot. Gotta go. She’s coming. If she catches me typing here with my muddy paws all over the keyboard, there’ll be a dawggone dawg fight goin’ on!
Ha! As Mark Twain said, “It’s not the size of the dog in the fight. It’s the size of the fight in the dog.”
Well, let me tell you. This dawg’s got a lotta dawggone fight left in him.
Okay. Here she comes. Gotta go fetch a cloth to wipe off the keyboard! Wish me luck!
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