So J tells me he’s too busy to take me to the T-Bell to eat/roll in yesterday’s mud, but then he somehow has enough time (and the gall) to tie a blue rubber ghost to my neck and watch as it chases me around the house? Total bullshit. I don’t care if he thinks “these three particular photos are 10X better than all the photos taken during Beth’s birthday party photo scavenger hunt, combined,” and I also don’t care that he “feels terrible he missed it.”
All I care about is escaping from this ghost. And eating mud. And then, if given the opportunity, rolling in the remaining mud that I did not eat.
So last week I climbed inside the internet and dragged the Metal Crate of Endless Sorrow* towards Craigslist. Terrible mistake.
Not the trying-to-get-rid-of-it part (that wiry monstrosity is the opposite of dreams where I lope joyfully through thickets of tall grass), but the part where I foolishly left my contact information inside the thing.
“Is the crate made of steel?” I have no idea. It’s metal? I can’t bite through it?
“Is it absolutely unused?” J wrestled me into it once. Then I yelped rape for five minutes and he never tried again.
“We may be interested, but we’re not getting our puppy from the breeder until September. Could you wait until then and then we can bring her to try it?”
Try it? Try it? Listen. It’s a crate. It’s made of metal. It’s unused. It’s going for a third of what Ms. P paid for it in the store. All this was covered in the post. Your inbred designer cot-death pre-order pup is going to hate it, because it’s constructed of six interlaced walls of unbreakableness and isn’t a satisfying replacement for the soft mothering nuzzles of the puppy farm sex slave that whelped her.
So no. J isn’t going to hold onto it until September. And you can’t try it. But you know what you can try? Barking off.
*Note: Will trade crate for treats. Any treats.
Just breaking some hearts. No big deal.
Really? Still?
Listen. I get it. You want to make sure you never get too far away from me. I wouldn’t want to be far away from me, either. But you have to try to understand where I’m coming from.
When you tie your sick hairless paw to my neck, I can’t hunt tree rats with any respectable amount of success, I can’t properly scavenge discarded pizza crusts, I can’t dash blindly into traffic when a glimpse of tree rat or crust enlivens my eyes… this blue bond, this unshakable rope, this taut stretch of anti-treat? It’s not keeping us together, J. It’s driving us apart.
I don’t know why J keeps fighting it. Drag that square cluster of wire spikes across your own hide, jerk! My fur has a natural centre-part, and no amount of Lionel torture is going to change that. TRUST.
It’s especially galling because this shit works for me! I wear the two-layer tangle like a European-cut shirt. You think Justin Bieber’s owner is trying to mess with his comb-forward vibe? You think Robert Pattinson’s trainer is trying to pick the burrs from his matted head-coat?
Even if there was something that could be done about my scene, I’ve been on adult kibble for over a year now – shouldn’t I be able to make my own doggy style choices?
Lionels, however, ride at dusk.
J says it’s important we get up at 7AM each day for the next month to watch every single game of the World Cup. Which in this Lionel’s opinion is wayyy too early. And for what? To watch a bunch of DBs lope around after a ball that’s far too big to hold in your mouth? Forget it.
But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at all interested, because in this particular World Cup there’s a player – a superb player – on the Argentinian side who is such a big fan of my furry perfection that he’s gone and named himself after me.
Argentinian Lionel and I share many of the same attributes. We both stand under 4 feet tall, we both have quick/unstoppable footspeed, and we both have unruly tufts of head fur that occasionally obscures our eyes.
So I guess I don’t have a problem waking up early to watch this particular player not carry a ball in his mouth. In a way, I feel like he’s my son, and I should support him, and I should be rewarded for this support with my new favourite thing: early morning treats.
It was cold in the T-Bell this morning. Unseasonably cold. The state of my carrot is evidence enough of that (frosted tips), but you know what was the coldest part of the morning, by far?
Running into the wiliest of my old foes, and having his unnatural albino fur slip through my paws yet again.
When J and I first starting voyaging to the T-Bell, I was very clear about the purpose of our sorties: To hunt down and kill the Great White Tree Rat.
It’s a simple goal. One you’d think would merit a bit of an alley-oop from the thumbsiest member of the pack. But no. In fact, instead of aiding me in this quest, J actively restrains me, by way of this incredibly complicated neck-binding system that he wields from his sickly hairless paws. It’s some future shit.
Anyway, after today’s failed lunge, I turned to J and stared at him, letting him know exactly how much of a disappointment he is to me, and how I expect the pack to cooperate like Stalin’s peasant soldiers in the pursuit of Getting Things That I See And I Want.
J looked back into my eyes with the intensity of an Alpha.
“You’ve been chasing him for so long, Lionel. What would you do if you ever caught him?”
That’s easy.
I’d feast. And then wear the Tree Rat’s skin as a cape, or scarf.
A cape or scarf of pride.
I had kibble.
Rwonk schnoo, rwonk schnoo, rwonk schnoo…
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Oh snap! Lioneled! GET THIS DICK!!!
So I hit the Leaside ravine the other day with Candy, this bitch I sometimes roll with.
It’s a bit of a car ride from Ms. P’s parents’ den, but it’s totally worth it. You know why?
Swamp water. Murky, raccoon-carcass befouled swamp water.
You know how it is; you’re out on a run, it’s a warm afternoon, you’re feeling a little thirsty… and then bam! Ravine swamp. Open for the drinking/bathing! LOVE IT!!!
I must have drank my fill at least five different times in five different swamps.
And later that evening I was lucky enough to relive the taste-memory of those slimey treats when I threw up on J’s face while he was sleeping.
Can’t wait to do it again!
My agent called today. “You’re familiar with the Soccer Dog franchise, right?”
I was like, “Bark, no.”
So I Googled it.
Apparently it’s this Air Bud ripoff from the late 90s about a dog named Lincoln who’s amazing at soccer. The sequel – Soccer Dog: European Cup – is apparently a more political film (its cast includes Orson Bean, who you’ll remember played shrewd businessman/shopkeeper Loren Bray on 146 episodes of “Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman”, a role he reprised in the made-for-TV movie, “Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman: The Movie”.)
Anyway.
An independent producer bought the rights to “Soccer Dog” in anticipation of releasing a third installment in time for this year’s World Cup in South Africa, but as of yesterday, the pup playing Lincoln was found dead in his trailer next to a full dish of treats and an overturned water saucer. Probably a sex crime.
So my agent sent my reel to the guy, and I guess he likes me for the part… but i’m not sure about it.
For starters, I don’t love the idea of stepping into a role that’s been pioneered by another canispian. Nobody wants to be the Jason Bateman to the original Lincoln’s Michael J. Fox. No contest!
Also, I read the first 15 pages of “Soccer Dog: Apartheid”, and it’s fucking brutal. Totally unbelievable – the love interest is an endangered leopard? Come the fuck on.
Plus I’d have to do an Afrikaans accent, which I haven’t rehearsed since I did that Tim Monnich workshop when I was up for Leo’s role in “Blood Diamond”.
I don’t know. On the other hand, a cheque is a cheque…
What do you think I should do?
J really shouldn’t let me climb into the internet and run around like I’m off-leash at the T-Bell. Why? Because I find shit like this.
Oh, Frank Lloyd Wright designed your den? Fuck you. I sleep on a $4 Ikea blanket covered in dried snout mess, bits of my teething bone and drops of teething-bone-related blood.
I know the important things in life aren’t material things; they’re the rubs of the belly, they’re the new assholes that – when you put your face in them – surprise your senses; they’re, well, they’re the treats.
And yet, I’m pretty sure I would tear up Ms. P’s best pair of riding boots for a single blissful night in one of these palatial dens.
Especially if this freaky mutt-eyed bitch was part of the package.
My carrot’s getting wet just thinking about it.
Can you believe the audacity of this little minx? Rolling right up to the window of my outer den like I wasn’t even on the scene?
If this nonsense had gone down at Ms. P’s, there’s a good chance the interloper would have been invited inside and offered full use of my bed and my ball and my treats.
Luckily I was at J’s, where he encouraged me to chase this disgusting thing into traffic.
It felt right.
J’s brother found this old photo of me. Dusty film. Blazing eyes. Some bitch’s nylons.
I was young, once.
From the Onion:
“Dog Finds Absolutely Perfect Place To Shit”
Oh ha ha ha, litterfucker. So clever! So unlike every other 100-word news brief the Onion joke robot poops out every four hours! At least when the updates were weekly they were funny. Now they’re just juvenile attacks on an entire species’ way of life.
If a member of dogkind were to write that same blurb for dogkind’s Less Funny Than McSweeney’s, Less Profitable Than College Humour internet publication, it’d be called “Human Takes Miracle Of Plumbing For Granted”.
You jerks don’t have to search for the perfect place to shit, because it’s inside the door next to the closet, in the room with all the tiles. You know what I’m talking about. The miniature white pool with water so sweet and fresh it might just be ambrosia. Yeah, you know the one. You’re on it, like, all the time.
I have a question about that thing: After you use your naked paws to trigger the scary whooshing-and-gurgle noise, do you meet up with other humans and talk about how awesome it is that you know where your next poop is going to go?
I’ll answer for you: No. You don’t. You talk about what’s for dinner, and about that show with all the sexy children, and how it’s badass that Obama is considering capping wall street CEO salaries at $400,000/year until the corporate bailout is repaid.
Well you know what? I don’t care. I don’t. Joke’s on you, punks. Because I also heard you talking about a possible camping trip in Algonquin this summer. That’ll be nice. Really relaxing. I’m looking forward to riding in the canoe, and sleeping amidst that fresh, parkland air.
And when morning comes, and you leave your sleeping bag, and you build a breakfast fire, and you make lumberjack coffee over that breakfast fire, and you drink that coffee…you’re going to be walking in circles in the trees like a 2-day-old puppy, trying to figure out where to go. I’m gonna love it, because you’ll have no clue. And me? I’m going to be walking in circles right behind you, snickering into my paw, pretending to be searching for one of those famous “dog’s perfect spot”.
Thing is, I figured out the perfect spot as soon as you put up the tent:
The tent.
Happy trails.
Listen. I know. It’s been a Lionel’s age since I’ve barked at you. But you know what? There’s a reason for that. And it’s not something I particularly want to discuss, but since nobody will leave me alone, here it is:
I got fat.
Like, my-harness-pinches-rolls-of-torso-blubber-off-my-ribs fat. I guess that’s why J started making me wear this Hannibal Lecter face dealy on walks. But it’s not like that thing’s ideal, because it makes the sniffing of sidewalk garbage and scent juice nearly impossible.
If I had a choice, I’d wear the tummy-pinchy harness. It may not be flattering, but at least it lets me ram my snout in the leavings of my peers.
I don’t know. Winter’s a difficult season. My birthday’s coming up in February. The 18th. I’ll be SEVEN EFFING YEARS OLD (or “1″ in your human years). So depressing. I feel like I haven’t accomplished anything important. I haven’t traveled. I haven’t fallen in love. I haven’t even humped a random saucy bitch in the T-Bell; and I mean, pretty much everybody has done that.
What the fuck am I doing with my life.
I’m a fat, 6 1/2-year-old virgin who wears a vinyl face mask in public.
Who wants to read a blog about that?
Hey, you guys ever Google yourselves?
Yeah. Me neither. Just checking.
But I mean, if you were to, say, type in “lionel treats”, this web log is like the fifth result (a, uh, a friend told me). How internet famous does that make me? Why don’t you take a look at an abstract of the THIRD result (copied below) and work it out yourself!*
The Smallville Webring: Season Three: Memoria
Lillian tells him she wants a divorce and that she didn’t want another child because she hates how Lionel treats Lex. Later, Lex remembers the night his …
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*As famous as Michael Rosenbaum, who plays Lex Luthor on “Smallville.” He was also the second lead in “Sorority Boys”.
___
UPDATE: The Internet is so smart. It only took two hours, but now Google thinks “lionel treats” should take you here. In that spirit, I’m gaming future searches with the following tasty quotables:
“lionel dog”
“lionel cool fun smart likeable”
“lionel awesome kisser”
That punctuation looks funny. But you know what? I’m a goddamn dog. You should be impressed my paws n’ claws tap out anything other than sdlkafouel;a;’aa ”asd;gklds;al kl; lfd;sljn;fsak;LLLLLL
Anyway. I didn’t intend for this post to be so negative. Let’s start over.
Many of you have been writing in and asking: “Lionel – if there was one song that really encapsulates what you’re all about, what would it be?”
That’s a tough one, guys. I mean, “Don’t Stop Believing” always gets me up on my hind legs (I’m working on a dance routine to it for Spring Regionals), and like any other pup with two incredibly sensitive ears, I’m a big fan of MJ’s entire catalogue (including “Rock With You” and “The Girl Is Mine 2008″), but lately there’s really only one jam that screams “Lionel” to me:
So what? I’m only adorably asleep in a warm puddle of lazy afternoon sunlight. Stop “fawning” over me, guys. Just kidding, just kidding.
But seriously I’m totally rocking a baby deer vibe here.
What, what do you mean, “Am I hiding anything?” That’s, you know, I resent, I resent the implication. I resent that.
What, these? I don’t know how they got here. Aren’t these part of the bed? They’re what humans sleep on, right? The “pillows” you and Ms. P are always arguing about?
Please don’t take my treats. My precious, delicious, leafy leafy treats.
So today was pretty much your standard day at the T-Bell. Some sprints, some rumps, a messy romp through a puddle – great times, all.
The weird thing, though, is that like half my dawgs were wearing sweaters and vests and puffy little sleeveless numbers. Did someone leave me off the Fall Ball invitation list? Why is everyone dressing so fancy? What happened to having pride in one’s furry nudity?
I feel like it’s not yet the season for such outfits. I mean, sure, once we get down to 35 below, and Lake Ontario’s ice cube winds are slamming us upside the snout, yeah, bring on the poly-filled parkas. But not on October 3rd. Not when it’s plus-15.
(Oh, and one little PS to the cockapoo in the pink jacket with the FUR trim – you do know that some sketchball factory overseas is skinning Lionels for that grisly neck accent, right? You, you know that, right? You do know that…right? Right.)
Since when do sharks attack dogs? Aren’t they just supposed to hunt and devour Robert Shaw and the various children of Amity Island?
When I first heard about this story, I thought “What a brave man, diving into the water to save his pup. I wonder if J or Ms. P would punch a shark in the face to save me from certain death?”
But after J showed me that video of Crazy Eyes boasting about his hammer-dive rescue, I thought “Jesus. No wonder Jake swam into a shark’s mouth. Better luck next time, friend.”
I’m conflicted about these so-called “socks”.
I mean, I understand that peoples marinate them all day long in a shoe and then abandon them in the closet basket so that I’ll have something interesting to find and put in my mouth in between meals and carrot cleanings. Obvs. I get that.
But I feel kinda bad for the poor rubes – what’s in it for them?
The answer is “nothing.” And that’s why, after a lot of sole searching, I’ve decided to give back in kind; from now on, if I step in a dead thing, or some street juice, or even a puddle of Lionel’s Own, I’m going to share. By putting my foot in J or Ms. P’s mouth while they’re sleeping.
Surprise! Is there any better way to wake up than via the subtle bouquet of paw on tongue? If there is, I can’t think of one. But what I can think about – what I will think about – are the smiles I’m going to bring to their faces, and the holes I’m going to put in their socks.
Many of you have you been writing in, asking what manner of treat keeps my eyes so brown and my beardliness so floofy. Would it surprise you to learn that it’s not, for once, all about the treats?
It’s…wait for it…the food!
(The silhouette’s a nice likeness, no?)
Yep. You read it here first. Lionel’s Choice. The ONLY dog food in the world worthy of being chosen by Lionel. And when I say “in the world” I mean “Lionel’s Choice is currently only available in South Africa”.
Now, I know what some of you must be thinking: “Lionel’s such a sellout! I used to trade rump-sniffings with him in the T-Bell, and now he rides around town in a diamond chariot pulled by pot-bellied zebras, chuckling a derisive chuckle at all the pups who don’t have lucrative sponsorship agreements with South Africa’s #1 ostrich/corn/beef tallow dry food.”
Guys. C’mon. It’s not like that. I just happened to find a product I believe in, which, really, is all anyone can possibly ask for. And if that means I take fewer walks and more diamond chariot rides, so be it. Just know that I’m the same Lionel you fell in love with 10 days ago.
Oh, and don’t forget to try my new Lionel’s Choice de-worming tablet. It’ll de-worm the shit out of you – literally!
This really takes the treat.
I mean, I’ve been writing to the production staff at Harpo for MONTHS, telling them all about my terrible childhood, my adoption, how I’ve finally regained trust in people, how I’m following my dream of becoming a famous dancer, how J and Ms. P have taught me that “hope” isn’t just the providence of inspirational stump speeches…
And this jerk gets an all-expenses paid crating to Chicago?
Why? Because a car accident left him with only two legs and his rapid recovery is both heartwarming and inspirational? Pfft. If you want inspiration, you should see me kicking it on two of MY legs. The hind ones. To Journey.
But you know what, Oprah Winfrey? This “Dominic” business has me – for the first time in my short life – questioning my faith in the poetry of Steve Perry. That’s right – I might stop believing.
In you.
The New Yorker has a great essay this week discussing Leona Helmsley’s heir, Trouble, and the legal snout-sneezing over trust funds for me and the other adorable Lionels of the world.
At issue, according to naysayers, is whether or not my kind are getting too many of your fancy human rights/dollars. Talk about a snooze; we already eat better than 70% of the world’s population, and the water I drink from Ms. P’s toilet is ambrosia. Case dismissed!
So let’s get down to brass treats, already. There are two reasons why jerks are choked about Trouble Helmsley getting all that lettuce:
1) Fear. Don’t worry! We’re not going to rend your throats like Cerberus set loose at a cocktail party in order to grab our cash, Menendez-style, years early (probably).
2) Jealousy. Hey, I get it. Peoples have to poop in toilets, while Lionels poop on lawns. Guys, this isn’t a big issue – we can ALL poop on lawns! It’s super easy. Just go for a walk, let it happen, and seconds later J will reach down with a biodegradable bag and take care of your business.
In conclusion, dogs are totally prepared to handle vast sums of money. If I didn’t believe that I wouldn’t have licensed my likeness to George and Chuck Parker in 1935.
And really, I mean, it’s not like we can eff things up worse than you guys.
Saturday Night College Street Guys, seriously: Throw your effing chicken bones in the trash instead of dropping them on the ground like the borderline-rapist cavemen you are.
Because you KNOW I’m going to see your late-night drunk garbage on the sidewalk and think it’s an abandoned treat, and before J can rattle off a clap to scare the thing from snout, *boom*, hematoma of the mouth! Via jagged-bone-stabbing (under my tongue).
Yeah, your shoddy chicken bones punctured the floor of my mouth. I had to be sedated to get the shards out. With a needle. A long, scary, please-don’t-let-it-be-the-kind-from-the-bad-room needle. When I woke up my mouth tasted like cotton and fear.
Now it hurts to eat food, drink water, and taste carrot. At least until J hooks me up with one of those wads of peanut butter with the crunchy round thing in the centre. They make everything better.
In fact, he just gave me one a few minutes ago. And it’s starting to kick in. Whoa. Man. Peanut butter is so crazy. My paws look HUGE. And they’re so soft. Seriously. Touch my paw. Touch it.
I wonder how long my body can go?
Jon Katz and Izzy can make even the sassiest pup feel like dog shit.
It’s not enough that Slate writer Katz runs this fairytale Narnia farm where animals of every sort frolic about, singing primal songs of brotherhood and carrot-taste, but now he’s got Izzy comforting the dying and wringing tears from my big brown eyes.
I mean, I was going to spend the day eating/vomiting rotting clumps of grass cuttings in the T-Bell, but I guess now I’ll reassess the decisions I’ve made?
Sigh. I didn’t even know “being a hospice puppy” was a thing. Do I spend too much time thinking about being a famous dancer? I’m hungry. When’s Ms. P coming home? Is that an ant over there by the fridge? This carpet is sooooo soft. Maybe a nice nap! Ooh, yes, nap.
(When I’m asleep I can’t feel.)
So today’s the first day of fall, which reallllly gets my carrot wet, because fall = dead leaves on the dirty ground.
And dead leaves on the dirty ground = a city-wide cornucopia of treats! Crispy, leafy, dirty treats.
My absolute favourite thing to do with dead leaves is to gather a snoutful from the porch and crumble them on the duvet by way of paw and fang.
My second favourite thing to do with leaves is look upon them and reflect. It was Walt Whitman who wrote, “Grow up taller sweet leaves that I may see! grow up out of my breast!”, which I’ve always taken to be a benediction encouraging one to gorge thine tiny puppy stomach on Gaia’s bounty.
Which brings me to my third favourite leafy activity: Purging! Violently, and often.
And then walking in it.
It’s such a wonderful time of year! And yet, J seems less stoked than I am on the changing seasons… He’d probably be happier if he let himself enjoy the fruits of the soon-to-be slumbering branch, but I suppose leaf isn’t to everyone’s taste (though I can’t see how!).
Also: He’s not very well-read.
The best thing about Ms. P being out of town and J hiding under the covers from my sharp sharp talons (so he can sleep) is that I get the computer to myself in the morning.
Today, instead of just marking it, I watched a few episodes of the curiously delightful BBC program Peep Show, then bloggy-paddled over to the New York Times web presence, where I was BLOWN THE EFF AWAY.
Aaron Sorkin wrote Maureen Dowd’s column this weekend! Anyone who has ever kicked it with me on the stone sectional knows I’m a sucker for Sorkin, but man, a conversation between Barack Obama and President Jed Bartlet? That’s some fictionalization even the casual West Wing fan can appreciate. A small sample:
OBAMA: I didn’t expect you to answer the door yourself.
BARTLET: I didn’t expect you to be getting beat by John McCain and a Lancôme rep who thinks “The Flintstones” was based on a true story, so let’s call it even.
So good. And there are many, many more tasty treats in the full piece. Check it!
So I’m kicking it with J on the stone sectional, watching Wolves annihilate Preston (yes Iwelumo!), when for no reason whatsoever he grabs the plastic rectangle wand and changes the channel to YTV.
Not a huge deal. I’m down with the new Transformers cartoon, but we only caught like 14 seconds of it before we were shunted into the commercial break. And that’s when I saw this shazz:
Are you effing me? A plastic pseudo-pup that spits stagnant tap water on your face? Merry Christmas, wealthy children! Is that how industrial designers of the toy-making world see us? What a slap in the snout. I’m still seething.
J had a different reaction, though. He started laughing, which I don’t understand at all; what’s so funny about 10-year-olds talking about how wet these automatons make them? Wake up, kids! If you want to get wet, go for the real deal: Dog. It’s what’s for playtime. You don’t even have to fill us up first!
What baloney.
Wait…baloney? Does somebody have baloney? Can I have some baloney? Baloney treats?
Treats?
Ms. P is leaving soon. And not just to go to Loving In The Name Of, she’s like, packing a suitcase and looking for her passport. Do you think she’s going somewhere far far away to try to find a cuter puppy? I hope not. I mean, I’m not insecure about my beardy perfectiveness, I just don’t like the idea of it.
I also don’t like how the plastic buttons on Ms. P’s duvet cover made me blow stomach all over the carpet this afternoon. Such a foamy mess! Oh, and they taste just awful. I thought they were maybe on the Tootsie Pop tip (possessed of a delicious mystery centre), but it turns out that if you spend the time to shred them down to shards, they’re just regular clear plastic buttons. Total burn!
Sigh. The way this day’s gone, I wouldn’t be surprised if Ms. P returns from her trip with a pocket pup in one hand and a bag of deviously tempting buttons in the other.
When I wake up in the morning, I try to just do my own thing. Lap a little water. Work on the Blue Bone of Infinite Vexation. Maybe step on Ms. P’s face a bit.
Activities I enjoy, all. But you know what I’m not so down with? Having to re-mark the computer every day. I mean, shoot, every time I hit that thing with a hot golden laser of Lionel’s Own, Ms. P rushes over with a wet sponge and erases all evidence that the thing belongs to us.
I’m protecting our assets, Ms. P! What, you think you’re the only one keeping our shit safe? I don’t see you barking at that Pomerasshole from upstairs when he prances past the door. Who growls at the birds? And when was the last time you bit a guest on entry?
When you actually do contribute, by “locking the door” or whatever, do I rush over there with a sponge and turn that deadbolt to the left? No, I don’t. Mostly because my sharp sharp dagger claws are useless against your slippery human metals, but also because I recognize you’re making an effort.
Would it kill you to do the same? I’m only one puppy, doing his best…and sometimes it feels like you don’t care.
Well I’m tired of it. Despite what you may think, I’m not made of pee.
Holy shit. ENOUGH with the flipping-me-on-my-back-while-saying-roll-over business. Does J do this to anyone else twice a day, for like 10 minutes at a time, every effing day?
Guess what, jerk? I’m not doing it. I’ll Sit, sure. I was going to sit anyway. And I have no problems with Lie Down. But I don’t care how many of these delicious bastards you cup to my snout, I will never – ever – be your trick monkey.
No roll-overs. No shake-a-paws. No playing dead. I’m not some pathetic, starved-for-attention GS. I’m Lionel, punk. King of the apartment. Recognize!
(Oh, and if I ever deign to “fetch” something you’ve thrown* in the park, get ready to glimpse 14 pounds of coiled muscle darting past you like a sophisticated joke.)
…
Any treats?
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*15 feet, tops.
Oh really? You think your Blue Bone of Infinite Vexation will outlast my Puppy Teeth of Incomparable Tenacity? We’ll see, jerks.
