It was Vern’s idea. He explained that, disastrous consequences aside, Sparky’s attempt to unleash his inner wolf had actually succeeded. When all was said and done—when the tow truck had left and the pizzas were paid for and the neighborhood’s electricity had been restored—there was no denying that our pal had displayed characteristics empirically consistent with those of a wild animal. “Perhaps,” said Vern, as his old eyes tracked the flight pattern of a local crow, “that same commitment can be channeled into something less destructive.” That got me thinking. (Newsflash puppies: Try it sometime.) If Sparky had misunderstood his way into doing something bad, maybe it was possible for him to misunderstand his way into doing something good. I walked across the backyard and sat in front of the sliding glass door to let Mrs. Baxter know I was ready to come inside. She opened it and told me that if I wanted to see Sparky that was okay but that he wasn’t allowed out of his kennel for the time being. I nodded, solemnly, and went to see my pal. “Hi buddy,” said Sparky, “how’s Vern? Tell him I can’t come outside for a little while but that I have big plans for those crows.” Don’t get me started. I assured Sparky the backyard was fine and that, speaking of Vern, we had important news. Sparky sprang up in the kennel. His aft section smacked against the plastic sides uncontrollably. That’s when I explained that it had come to our attention that Sparky, believe it or not, was being considered for possible entry into the elite and highly prestigious International League of Exceptionally Well Behaved Dachshunds. Which reminds me of the time I made up a completely fictitious organization in hopes of bringing out the best in Sparky to thereby prevent Mrs. Baxter from making any hasty decisions regarding his relocation.
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…
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