Tuck, the teenager down the street, was trouble personified. Don’t get me started. And ever since his acquisition of a crossbow, an irresponsible Christmas gift from his incarcerated uncle Jim, the neighborhood had been experiencing a suspicious escalation in unsolved misdemeanors involving dead birds and flat tires. I barked a lot but the powers that be failed to connect the dots. Unfortunately, when word got out that Sparky would retrieve anything as long as he was convinced it had something to do with badgers, Tuck was among the first to exploit my pal’s grit, determination and character. Newsflash puppies: Trust no one. “Hey Sparky,” Tuck said, “I need your help nabbing a really big batch of badgers.” My pal, thrilled to be of service, began stretching. Tuck went on to explain that this particular family of elusive critters was located behind glass, in the refrigerated section of Mr. Mevel’s Stop ‘n Go Market, two streets over and one block south. When Sparky inquired as to how he’d recognize his target, Tuck showed him a tall can of Budweiser with an arrow shot through it. Long story short, it wasn’t long before Mrs. Baxter got a call from Mr. Mevel explaining that Sparky was in his store wrestling with a case of beer that was much heavier than he (Sparky) was. Which reminds me of the time Mrs. Baxter started playing Gregorian chants, loudly, at breakfast.
Happy BIRTHDAY CHUNKY!!!This birthday boy deserves every lick of his cake. Put your paws together for our favorite @bigchunkymonkey and his St. Patrick's birthday!
Morty Exposes The Industrial Chew Toy Complex
If humans got one thing right, it’s the IRS. Wonderful profession. More of a calling than a job really. If I understand Mr. Baxter correctly, it’s an entire agency that sneaks around making sure everybody else is on the up and up. Newsflash puppies: That’s what I do everyday—have been for the better part of a decade. Don’t get me started. Of course sometimes I don’t know why I bother. Most puppies are hopeless. It’s all entitlement and excess with these goofballs. Doggles®? Are you serious!? Ha! I can see fine without “stylish protective eyeware” thank you very much. Who comes up with this junk? When I was a puppy I had one tennis ball. One. Kept it for three years and it wasn’t even new to begin with. That’s how we did things back then. Don’t get me started. Did I complain? Heck no! I was grateful and took damn good care of my belonging—dropped it in my water bucket every now and then, kept it clean as best I could. No telling when I’d get another one if God forbid something happened to it. Of course that was all before the meteoric rise of the Chew Toy Industrial Complex. That’s right puppies, I’m talking about a shadow pack of elites—probably Huskies—who control everything. But don’t expect to read about it in The Droolitzer, I’m pretty sure Bogie is in on their mainstream agenda. Canine social engineering and whatnot. Newsflash puppies: life’s not all biscuits and belly rubs. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And whatever happened to carefully burying your bones for a rainy day? Lemme guess? You don’t wanna get your wittle paws durtie. Ha! Anyway, who’s funding this surplus of assets in the canine community? That’s what I want to know. Half these puppies are underemployed at best. Unbelievable. Which remind me of the time…