My Dog’s Story

My Dog’s Story

By:  Garland Davis

 

This is a traumatic story that I can only now talk about.

The guy who I must walk every morning and three of four other times each day went shopping at a place called Walmart.  I have never been there.  They are anti-dog, except for those of us who have taken human control to its maximum, you know, the Prima Donnas who call themselves Service Dogs.    They get to go everywhere.  But I digress!

Anyway, the guy went to this Walmart place to get beer.  Boy, that stuff is nasty. I don’t see how he can drink it.  Give me a nice refreshing bowl of tap water.  But, let me tell you about this Axe Body Wash stuff.  The guy takes a lot of baths.  Every time he begins to smell appealing, he washes it off with a sweet-smelling soap and anoints his body with sickly, cloying liquids and unguents.  And then he uses this thing to take what little fur he has off his face.   Weird looking, something like a shaved Poodle.  Many times, when he goes to this Walmart place, he comes home with more sweet smelling stuff.  If he really wants to smell good, there is a dead cat on the corner that I recommend the guy roll on.  Heavenly!

He watches a lot of Television.  I looked at an interesting show once.  It was about a bitch dog named Lassie.  I stopped watching about halfway through when I noticed that Lassie was only half Bitch.  She wasn’t a fully equipped dog.  I see some like that when we are walking.  They don’t have the nuts to be a full male if you know what I mean.  It is surprisingly easy to whip their asses.  These TV shows sometimes advertise this stuff called Axe, that attracts hordes of female guys to male guys.

Back to Walmart.  The guy bought a bottle of Axe Body Wash.  When he showed me the stuff, I tried to warn him that SHE wouldn’t like it when he was mobbed by all those females.  I don’t understand it, but his breed is strange that way.

Absent minded as he is, he leaves the bottle of Axe on the washing machine and later, SHE puts it in a cabinet where they store that horrible stuff he uses to bathe me.  Brrr… It seems as if every time I begin to smell like I should, he washes me and I lose my attractive body odor.  I figure getting rained on occasionally is enough bathing for any dog.

A couple of days after his shopping trip, I was under his desk while he was trying to write one of those braggadocios stories about LBFM’s (I don’t know what they are, but I wonder if they are safe to eat) and chasing Pussy in a place called P.I. (We see Pussies ever day during our walks.  He never tried to chase them and won’t let me.) A friend of his, nice guy (Rubs my head.) asked him if SHE had read any of his stories. He said no.  Funny these human guys!  Some of that gas with the wonderful odor of turd drifted out of me.

He jumped up and said, “God Dammit, Taro.  That’s it.  You are getting a bath.”

He goes into the garage and prepares the sink.  When he went for my shampoo, he discovered the bottle was empty.  There sat the bottle of Axe.  He decided to use it to bath me.  This began two weeks that were eventful, enjoyable, and terrifying all at the same time.

Bitch dogs from up and down the street started running away from home and mobbed me.  They weren’t even in heat, but the still shoved their booties in my face.  Some of them were trying to lick my junk. “Baby, I didn’t know you were like that.  You bit the hell out of me last week when I just tried to grab a quick sniff.”

All that was the enjoyable part.  That gay Labradoodle, Bruce with the pink bandana, who lived three streets down moved into the garage.  I had to whip his ass repeatedly because he kept trying to smell and lick my junk. Beating his ass was enjoyable, but he was spending so much time hanging around the garage, following me around, and making moves on my junk, that the other dogs were beginning to think I was as the guy says, “Light in the Loafers.” (I don’t understand it, I am a heavy loafer.)

Finally, all this reached a point where I could no longer tolerate the constant attention from the bitches and Bruce was becoming a metaphorical “Pain in the Ass.”  If he had his way he would become a real one. Being a celebrity was cutting into the time I devoted to my seven of eight naps a day.

Tired of this celebrity lifestyle, I rolled on the Dead Cat and a couple of dried turds, finally overwhelming and negating the Axe aroma.  Now I smelled like a dog again. Within a couple of hours, the Bitches were back to growling and barking at Bruce and me

SHE gave the partial bottle of Axe to Bruce’s guy.  He used it to bath Bruce.  Bruce fell in love with himself and now spends and now spends his time licking his junk while ignoring the attentions of all the adoring Bitches.

I’ve got to go.  It’s time for a protracted afternoon nap.  The guy bought another bottle of Axe.  He said he is going to shower and go for a walk up at the University because the Cheerleaders are practicing.  It’s all noise to me.  The only things he says that I listen to are “Cheese” and “Riding in the Car.”

 

 

 

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