Dramatic Puppy

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.

Found In Park: Balls

How Will Anyone Know It’s Ours?

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.

Straight Up No Gimmicks

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?

___
*15 feet, tops.

Fuck You, West Paw Design

Oh really? You think your Blue Bone of Infinite Vexation will outlast my Puppy Teeth of Incomparable Tenacity? We’ll see, jerks.