Saturday SlobberLove

Sometimes on Saturday, after the morning somehow gets away from us and we raise a ruckus of such crap proportions that it makes life unpleasant for everyone within 90 million miles because we are unable to control our shrill madman bark, there is a moment where we are able to finally get hold of our marbles and realize that when we behave like The Three Stooges, nothing good can blossom.

And we give ourselves a good talkin’ to and we remind ourselves that there is more to life than shouting and running and tackling imaginary hornets and we realize that our true essence is not a lunatic hippo and we deserve to live a life of honor.

And so we gather the best version of ourselves together and we sit quietly for at least four minutes and then we gaze up into the eyes of the two people we love the most — our beloved keepers — and we try to tell them, using our most sincere don’t-it-make-your-brown-eyes-blue expression, that even though we periodically act like Charles Bukowski, we are dedicated to making them happy and creating a peaceful homestead and there is nothing we could properly do to express our gratitude for the fact that we know there is nothing we could ever do that would motivate them to give up on us and turn their love away.

Yours In Confounding Futile Effort,
Frederick Forgive Me

18 Comments on "Saturday SlobberLove"

  1. The Zadge says:

    This could have been titled “Harry’s Manifesto.”

    • Cupcake Murphy Cupcake Murphy says:

      They know not what they do. Kind of.

      • MidLyfeMama says:

        Oh they know. They are simply incapable of overcoming their doggy natures. As I say, you cannot deny the DNA.

        • Cupcake Murphy Cupcake Murphy says:

          You know I hear you however you know that whole thing where people go “Why does a dog lick his own balls?” and you go “Why?” and they go “BECAUSE THEY CAN! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!” and you go “If I had balls I don’t know that I’d necessarily lick them just as I know I would not lick my own butt just because I could.”

  2. JaniceP says:

    Cotton could have written that. Oh, wait… no. He’s a terrier. He knows his barking drives me nuts, but he doesn’t care.

  3. The Farmer says:

    And that says it all…

  4. yes, when they are sorry, they are sorry.
    And when they are NOT, oh, well.

  5. claudia w says:

    This is what I should be saying
    …Trey, AKA the Chupacabra

  6. Hulk (It was actually Steve Braun) says:

    I had to look up ‘Charles Bukowski’ as I originally thought you were talking about a guy who played third for the Twins in ’73…

    • Cupcake Murphy says:

      Charles Bukowski will eventually end up on my Things I Don’t Understand list. He was a big booze hound who wrote stories and poems like Gin and Me Under the Freeway Lying In My Own Barf and then everyone would go “BRILLIANT!”

      • Hulk (It was actually Steve Braun) says:

        He is already on my Authors I Am Sure I Will Never Read Ever list…

        • The Farmer says:

          Never met a man that didn’t like Bukowski. Booze and ladies. Yeah and barf.

          Actually, maybe that says something about the kind of men I know.

  7. Catalyst says:

    Did you say Barkowski?