As I was saying, Sparky had been spending most of his afternoons on the loose. “I’m in love, Morty,” he’d explained. We had a perimeter to manage but I covered for him in the backyard while he did heaven-only-knows down the street at Sally’s house. Don’t get me started. I will say that his escape to capture ratio was impressive. For how many times he snuck out my pal only got caught by the scruff of his neck three times! Say what you want, the boy knows a thing or two about eluding the opposition. That third time, however, was the last straw. Sally’s owner was totally beside himself. He knocked on the Baxter’s front door with a very unhappy Sparky in his right hand and began shouting slanderous accusations and, for some reason, asking questions of a highly personal nature about my pal’s nether regions. The man seemed particularly interested in ascertaining whether or not Sparky had had a certain unfortunate but very important medical operation. Mrs. Baxter had to explain that while he had not, yet, it was not for lack of trying—repeatedly. Before you puppies get the wrong idea, the Baxter’s are the most responsible dog owners in Lake View Terrace and maybe the world and know full well that canine homelessness is a serious problem in this country. The thing is Sparky didn’t just casually not like veterinarians—he had what can only be described as an involuntary, extremely physical reaction to the very thought of seeing one. The degree to which he’d protest any interaction with medical professionals was legendary. On the rare occasion he allowed himself to be tricked or persuaded into their offices, my pal unleashed what can only be described as hell in the extreme. More often than not, furthermore, he managed to incite riot and rebellion in whatever other animals happened to be visiting the doc at the same time he was. His knack for this transcended species. The last time Mrs. Baxter took Sparky to the vet, for example, two cats, a potbelly pig, a Cockatoo with clipped wings, and an Iguana with a head cold somehow managed to persuade the doctor-on-call to go home early that day. Don’t get me started. “So you see,” Mrs. Baxter told the man, “his operation had to be postponed.”
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…