Before I go further with my post for today, I wanted all of you to know something. I’ve given up on Ms. Dog. But, I’m not giving up on my search for The One.
I’ve marked my territory a good one this week. Saturated it. My biological clock is ticking. It’s an expression I’ve heard on women’s talk shows lately.
Now for the real post. H is for Hair Ball. Mummsy calls him, Honey Bear. What kind of name is that? It’s totally undignified. That’s what! Just look at him! A hair ball!
I can’t seem to get away from him. See, he’s on my mummsy’s robe like it belongs to him or something. He thinks everything is his.
I can’t even politely ask for my favorite treats without him butting in.
See what I mean.
He thinks he’s all that and a bag of Greenie Bones.
A Hair Ball.
Too bad I don’t have my kitties anymore. They’d show him who the boss is. They’d spit him out like the hair ball he is. He’s not fooling me like he does mummsy and daddy-o.
SPALS: No…stop…it’s not your computer!
HB: Is, too!
SPALS: Is not. Oww! My head! I’m going to tell mummsy! (That hair ball just knocked me onto the floor. He’s a head butter.)
HB: Pansy! Sir Poops-A-Lot’s a pansy. That’s why Ms. Dog ignored you. Pansy! Pansy! Pansy! Na…Na…Na. Girls don’t like pansies!
Dear Two-Legged people:
My brother Sir Poops-A-Lot is a real pansy. Don’t you think?
He’s just jealous because mummsy loves me better. I’m cuter, anyway.
What do you think? I’m better, right?
