So many thinks, so little time/space continuum… I’m branching out, wooden ya know, and I’m going in search of some friendly trees (no mean trees, pleeze, we're dogs). I’m just sayin I am a wait-bearing tree lover and waggie tails to you, until we meat again.
Avast, arrrrf, ye mateys. Since there is no particular clamor to respond to my question about a $7/mo contribution to my ability to keep my dog house and eat bacon, I will plan to begin that in March. Otay? You can still be a free loader (OH, did I put that in Little Red Writing Hood?) if you want, I just am hoping to buy some bacon soon. One of the things about writing a dog blog is that feedbag is not required, but it sure helps keep us toenail tappers from feeling like we’re not barking up a dead tree, doncha know. Speaking (woof!) of dead trees, I was watering one, and it just reached down and smacked me with a branch! So not dead, I gather, wood. It was just like the Hairy Dogger movie! I was, to putt it mildly, astroturfishinated.
Whelp, it’s been a ruff two years, wooden ya say? I know I am fed up, not with bacon, but with the treachery of Evil Rat Bastards that seem to be interfering with everything we do and donut do. Every buddy is on eggs. We’re all stretched out. Kinda odor whelmed, y’know? And then there’s some of these boy dogs, freeeekin’ out, cuz d’bitches (girl dogs) arf startin’ to have their day (wot, it’s only been several thousand years! And after all, it’s about time! Just look where summa these naughty and downright rabid pointer dogs got us to… The world is on FIYAH!). It’s every dog has a day, not just some dogs, not just boy dogs… Cheeses, rice. What, do they fink we’re gonna treat them like “bitches” when the Age of Aquarium finally arrives??? Do they fink we’re THEM? Butt, they gotta turn around and bite the bitches. smdh
(((No offense, my dear fellas wot are good boys. I can ask, who’s a good boy? And you know who you arrrrrf! I love ya, no prob! (I whisker softly, Robdog! It’s Jo Mama!). )))
Sheeeeeesh, I say, enlarging on the topic. *Wooooooof.*
I went on LinkedIn, most unlike me, as it’s not really so dog-friendly, even with my Happy Dog Waggly Tail Mode… It’s so rabbit, y’know? Everyone is trying to sell it, sell it, can’t even spell it, hoppin’ around all wound uppers. I hadda brain cramp in about five minuets, and then I got my tail inna knot. But waddya gonna dooooo? Ya wanna job, Dog? Well, I wanna Dog Job. It’s like a whirlie gig opportunity avec muzzles, choke collars, and short leeches. I wanna REAL Dog Job. With treats and no tricks. So, eye spend time looking through the looking glass ceiling. I’ll bee hired when there’s no insanity on my face, like a muzzle, like a swarm of bacteriacidal cotton…
Nest think I know, inna space of five minuets (or lifetines), THREE macho growlies tried to tackle me, put me inna strange jacket, and tell me what ALL girl dogs otter do. They donut KNOW me and they’re trying to tell me, long distants, virtual stranglers, and I can’t say dis, and I can’t do dat… I didn’t even growl at them first! Dog forbid if I say anything like “And girl dogs want a chew toy, too.” Then I hafta walk around with my face hangin’ off my head for a while! And my litter mates do the same thing, too. AS IF.
I don’t tell boy dogs how they otter do! It’s like they ate up the entire sidewalk on a sesame seed bun. I yam de-biscuitized. I yam un-baconed. I meat the press and I donut get frothy ‘bout no silly tail-tucky boy dogs tryin’ to tell me scratch. Don’t pick a bone avec moi, lads, iffy know a steak from a cat treat. SOMEBODY didn’t get their treats, I guess!! Big puppies. Hey, that’d be a great name for a band! A BOY band. ;)
Good Woof! And Good Luck.
I yam commenting on my own blog. I feel my own pane, not you'rin, but we call that PeeMail in the trade. STOB sending me nothing at all! Get a grit on yerself! Gimma five, gimma ten, gimma one feathery hen! Owwoooooo beautiful, for spacial sky, fo rambler waves of--- Shhhh! there's a SQUIRR---