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.
To be fair, you generally like rolling over when we’re on walks.
Only if I find something dead to roll in, and you know that. Don’t muddy the issue. (Unless the “mud” is “something dead”, in which case, please rub my torso in it. Regular mud also OK.)