Wednesday, June 30, 2004
Hank here. And boy, don't I have a story to tell! Yesterday when I was snoozing real nicely under the table, the goddess dragged me out and bathed me. Now, I don't mind a little bit of water, even when there's nothing interesting swimming in it, but she always has to pour that stuff on me, you know, the perfume stuff that looks like soap. Soap is not bad to snack on, although the dish is kind of hard for your gullets, but that perfume yuck is horrible. Man, it's horrible.
And what really pisses me off is that the only reason I got a bath is because her royal highness Henrietta the Hound (a.k.a the Main-Pain-in-the-Butt) needed one so I had to pretend to be dirty, too. Hypocricy, I cried. Hypocricy. But she don't care.
So I bided my time. Which came this morning. We went out for some running and terrarist hunting and squirrel torturing, and I was so good you could've thought I was a libural poodle! Except at the last minute, right before we went home, I jumped into the river and then quickly swam to the muddy side for a nice long rollaround! The screaming and the hollering! Heh, heh, as my idol Limbaugh would say. That'll learn them. And then I ran back, all affectionate-like and when I got near enough, guess what I did? Yep. I shook.
That's why they call me the Baptist and the Shaker. Get it? Get it?
the Murican Labrador Retriever