Sometimes on Saturday, after wrestling with our mortal enemy: The Rain and trotting along, not complaining, with our owners under a sprinkly sky FOR GOD ONLY KNOWS WHY we finally get back to our favorite pea green comforter with the faux alligator pattern on it and we burrow way way way way down under it and we fall sound asleep and have dreams of being on an island with Chet the crazy/wild fluffy white Pekingese who lives on 5th and we feel a slice of Winter Peace.
Until we hear our owners having a conversation about Thanksgiving Day and whether or not we will join them at our Grandparents’ house.
And so we spring into action and turn on our rocket propellers that are positioned just to the left and right of our butt hole and we shoot up and out from under the one ton blanket that’s been covering us and we make sure to put our two cents into this important conversation about our Turkey Day Destiny in the form of BIG BROWN WEEPY/DEEP EYES and SIGHING AT JUST THE RIGHT MOMENT and then MAYBE SOME BARELY AUDIBLE WHIMPERING THAT IS THE PERFECT AMALGAM OF HOPE AND A TSUNAMI.
And then we simply go back to licking the area around our scrotum and pray that the loving fools we live with will see the light and realize that holidays are about being together, regardless of the number of legs one might have.
I’ll Drive If You Want Me To,
Tiny Terrier Who Wants To Tag Along