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Hello to all of my friends – my furry ones and my skin-covered ones alike. Let’s face it: we’re not that different, you and I. Cats, now, are maybe a bit lower on what I call “life’s scratching post,” but are to be respected nonetheless. I just happen to think anything that poops in a box is stupid.
I’m excited to announce my engagement to my new love, Trina. My pet doug brought her home, and might I say: Hubba HUBBA. I might be neutered, but I ain’t dead; this bitch is gorgeous! She’s not much bigger than a huge cat, she’s Irish, and I love her madly. We’ve been doing a lot of rasslin’ on the couch, and more than our fair share of lickin’ and sniffin’. Hopefully, you’ll all meet her soon.
On a more disturbing note, I recently found out from a new, collie friend, humans can sometimes be even lower than a skunk. I met this poor guy while on a midnight stroll, after my pet doug and I had returned from a walk in the field. Although dog tired, I skipped the usual leashing once we reached the highway, and high-tailed it for my old stomping grounds by Baker Drive. It was wrong of me to bolt like that, but every now and then, I just need some private time to take a big ol’ swim in “Lake Me.“
On route, I happened to pass this collie, looking forlorn inside a fenced yard. Strutting in my macho, yet slightly rotund way, I belly up to him and say, “What’s shaking, my hound friend? Ya look a little long in the tooth.” That of course, is some dog humor I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but obviously this stranger did. “Oy,” he yapped, “What are ya gonna do?” I says, “Funny; you don’t look Jewish.”
We chuckles a bit, and he starts talking some weird stuff, like: “So, you out lookin’ for some hot monkey love?” I says, “What the hell you barking about, man?” and he comes back with, “There’s this hot little French Poodle that struts by here sometimes, and I wouldn’t mind jumping her bones. You know what I’m saying, my dog?”
Finally, it dawned on me: “Oh yeah; I remember now; been there; done that. But for a coon’s age, me and my pet have been pretty inactive. Not even sure why. I’d stay away from that poodle though, if I was you. Them French are against the war, ya know?”
Well, then the conversation took on a more sober tone, as I’ll now relate:
COLLIE: So you ran off, huh? I bet you’re gonna get beat when you get home.
ME: Well, actually, no. My pet doug never beats me… never has and never will. Now, he’s given me a slight swat on the pooper a few times, but I’ve been struck harder by newborn kittens. Of course, I give him the ol’ sad eye thing, allowing us both the illusion of discipline. Then he usually starts huggin and slobbering all over me.
COLLIE: Are you serious? He really never hits or kicks you?
ME: Of course not. Dogs aren’t supposed to be beat. He does get mad when he returns from a stop, and finds me viciously barking at a passerby from the window of my truck. He yells, “QUIT IT; BE NICE!” and occasionally love taps me on the snoot, but I don’t expect him, with his limited, people intelligence, to understand. Our perfect life is under direct threat any time I’m left alone in the truck. So I’ll keep doing my job the best darn way I know how, until he takes this threat seriously.
Why do you ask anyway? Are you telling me your guy hurts you?
COLLIE: Well, DUH! I thought everybody’s did. If I bark too much, I get a kick in the ribs with his big boot. A while back, I think some of them were broke, because it hurt every time I tried to laugh or pant. And you know yourself: when there’s no water and that big orange thing is in the sky, it’s hard not to pant.
ME: Now wait just a doggone minute. Are you telling me he doesn’t always leave you cold water when that big orange thing’s out? I’ve never been without cold water. It’s the law, boy; he HAS to leave you water. You could die or suffer brain damage and become stupid as a cat.
COLLIE: Ah, sometimes he does. But after a bunch of days or weeks, he forgets to see if I drunk it all. Those last few gulps are pretty gross, what with the leaves and dirt and all, but it’s either drink it or hope it rains and sleep on my back. Usually though, on those hot days in the back of his truck, he’ll remember to bring water.
ME: Now, back up a few steps, fella. In the back of the truck? He puts you in the BACK? What; there’s no room in front? I ain’t never rode in the back of a truck in my life. Why should I? It’s my truck! Doesn’t he know you could fall out of there faster than a goofy cat jumping on a rubber mouse?
COLLIE: Oh, he knows. In fact, I fell out last year and broke my leg. Actually, I think I jumped, because the bottom of that truck got so hot, I was like a cat on a hot tin roof. Another time, he was drunker than a skunk, taking curves like a bat of hell, and I slid right off the hot toolbox. Luckily, I landed in some weeds so it didn’t hurt much. He threw me back in, and off we went. That was some wild ride, my friend.
ME: I don’t mind telling you, buddy: I’d like to bite this guy in the scrotum. I’m madder than a wet hen right now. I’m gonna bark this to my pet’s attention and we’ll get you taken out of there. You might have to go the Greybull Highway prison for a while, but it’s a far cry better than where you’re at now.
COLLIE: What, are ya kiddin’ again? Why would I leave; I love this guy. Sure he hurts me and leaves me alone for days at a time, but he’s my pet. I forgive him.
Well, I bid my new friend goodbye, shook his paw, promised I’d return soon, and sadly trotted back to the barn-smelling house. My pet doug was just pulling out to look for me, and I jumped into the truck when he opened the door. He scolded me as best he could fake it, and I did the usual “Ooh, I’m frightened” act. Then I saddled over next to him, buried my head into his chest, and nuzzled him like I’ve never nuzzled before.
I think you understand why.
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