Day 1:
Today started like any other day. I woke up. I had breakfast. I rolled in the dirt. I wrestled with my litter-mates. I ate lunch. I ate some dirt, then rolled in it... again. All in all, it was just another typical, fun-filled day in the life of me.
But something happened a little different this afternoon. A pair of bipeds came a-calling today. One of them was a very large male. I think he has issues with self-control and should probably learn to back away from the dinner table a couple of helpings sooner. The other one was a short and skinny female, and had a shrill, high-pitched voice.
The little one crawled underneath the porch with us. She just slithered right into our home, uninvited, without so much as a knock. It was a little rude, but whatever. We're dogs and we'll tolerate just about any kind of knuckle-dragging behavior, even when it comes from gangly bipeds. We forgave the intrusion because she was fun to gnaw on, and we knew she'd be leaving sooner or later.
The large one walked into the house. We didn't see him for awhile, but after a bit he came back outside, talking to the older, large biped who lives in the house. He came to the edge of the porch, but wouldn't come under with us. Instead, he snapped his fingers and made this strange kissing sound. I thought it was absurd. You can't kiss someone from 10 feet away. Silly bipeds. My mom is a super nice, super smart lady, though. She figured out that this goofy biped was trying to get us to come out. She went out to greet him. I stayed put. This biped was big, and he's a stranger. You've seen the PSAs; stranger-danger and all that. Besides, I was entirely too busy chewing on the smaller, less-imposing biped.
As street-wise as I am, though, even I cannot resist the primal call of my stomach. After several unsuccessful minutes of beckoning to us with the kissing sounds, the large biped changed tactics. He momentarily disappeared, then re-appeared with a large, noisy sack. I was skeptical at first, but then he opened the sack. My senses were immediately assaulted by the smell of sweet, sweet ambrosia. My caution was discarded and I boldly made my way towards the edge of the porch, and away from the safety and security of my bed. My litter-mates, similarly inclined, followed suit.
As we exited our refuge, the large biped poured the contents of the bag into a bowl. We all rushed towards the bowl, throwing caution to the wind. What was this wonderful stuff!? It smelled good enough to eat, but it was strange. It was in little hard chunks, nothing like the warm, liquidy goodness of my standard fare. It felt funny, but I couldn't resist. I dove right in, filling my mouth with the sweet nectar of this new delight.
Then tragedy! We soon discovered that our newly-grown teeth were insufficient for crushing these hard bits. It was a disappointment, but the taste! Oh, the taste! We eagerly swallowed, anyway. This turned out to be a terrible mistake. The hard chunks don't go down smooth. After some embarrassing coughing and gagging, the old biped mixed some water with the chunks. This softened them up just enough to gum them down to a manageable size. We all ate till we couldn't eat any more.
After eating, we were reminded that the large biped was still there (by his incessant pestering). We collectively decided to gratify him. We are a generous lot, after all. He did bring us this wonderful new kind of food. It was the least we could do. Also, we were on the verge of a food coma, but the biped doesn't need to know that.
The bipeds spent the next several minutes stroking us, which was great. They also talked to us in goofy, high-pitched voices, which was less great, and also weird. The large biped would occasionally stop petting and talking to point a big, black, flashy-thing at us. I don't now what that was, but if this is the sacrifice I have to make to get this new food, so be it.
The large biped seemed to pay particular attention to me. I suppose I can understand. I am a glorious specimen. My litter-mates pretended not to notice, but we've lived together our entire lives. I know they're being eaten alive by their own jealousy.
After awhile, the two stranger-bipeds left, and life returned to normal. All in all, it's been a good day.
Today started like any other day. I woke up. I had breakfast. I rolled in the dirt. I wrestled with my litter-mates. I ate lunch. I ate some dirt, then rolled in it... again. All in all, it was just another typical, fun-filled day in the life of me.
But something happened a little different this afternoon. A pair of bipeds came a-calling today. One of them was a very large male. I think he has issues with self-control and should probably learn to back away from the dinner table a couple of helpings sooner. The other one was a short and skinny female, and had a shrill, high-pitched voice.
The little one crawled underneath the porch with us. She just slithered right into our home, uninvited, without so much as a knock. It was a little rude, but whatever. We're dogs and we'll tolerate just about any kind of knuckle-dragging behavior, even when it comes from gangly bipeds. We forgave the intrusion because she was fun to gnaw on, and we knew she'd be leaving sooner or later.
The large one walked into the house. We didn't see him for awhile, but after a bit he came back outside, talking to the older, large biped who lives in the house. He came to the edge of the porch, but wouldn't come under with us. Instead, he snapped his fingers and made this strange kissing sound. I thought it was absurd. You can't kiss someone from 10 feet away. Silly bipeds. My mom is a super nice, super smart lady, though. She figured out that this goofy biped was trying to get us to come out. She went out to greet him. I stayed put. This biped was big, and he's a stranger. You've seen the PSAs; stranger-danger and all that. Besides, I was entirely too busy chewing on the smaller, less-imposing biped.
As street-wise as I am, though, even I cannot resist the primal call of my stomach. After several unsuccessful minutes of beckoning to us with the kissing sounds, the large biped changed tactics. He momentarily disappeared, then re-appeared with a large, noisy sack. I was skeptical at first, but then he opened the sack. My senses were immediately assaulted by the smell of sweet, sweet ambrosia. My caution was discarded and I boldly made my way towards the edge of the porch, and away from the safety and security of my bed. My litter-mates, similarly inclined, followed suit.
As we exited our refuge, the large biped poured the contents of the bag into a bowl. We all rushed towards the bowl, throwing caution to the wind. What was this wonderful stuff!? It smelled good enough to eat, but it was strange. It was in little hard chunks, nothing like the warm, liquidy goodness of my standard fare. It felt funny, but I couldn't resist. I dove right in, filling my mouth with the sweet nectar of this new delight.
Then tragedy! We soon discovered that our newly-grown teeth were insufficient for crushing these hard bits. It was a disappointment, but the taste! Oh, the taste! We eagerly swallowed, anyway. This turned out to be a terrible mistake. The hard chunks don't go down smooth. After some embarrassing coughing and gagging, the old biped mixed some water with the chunks. This softened them up just enough to gum them down to a manageable size. We all ate till we couldn't eat any more.
After eating, we were reminded that the large biped was still there (by his incessant pestering). We collectively decided to gratify him. We are a generous lot, after all. He did bring us this wonderful new kind of food. It was the least we could do. Also, we were on the verge of a food coma, but the biped doesn't need to know that.
The bipeds spent the next several minutes stroking us, which was great. They also talked to us in goofy, high-pitched voices, which was less great, and also weird. The large biped would occasionally stop petting and talking to point a big, black, flashy-thing at us. I don't now what that was, but if this is the sacrifice I have to make to get this new food, so be it.
The large biped seemed to pay particular attention to me. I suppose I can understand. I am a glorious specimen. My litter-mates pretended not to notice, but we've lived together our entire lives. I know they're being eaten alive by their own jealousy.
After awhile, the two stranger-bipeds left, and life returned to normal. All in all, it's been a good day.
