Okay, here’s the truth. I’m a dog. Yes. Yes. How could anyone think anything less of me? I’m an animal. Okay?
But party animal?
Please. I’m sure it’s all a mistake.
It can’t have anything to do with that ridiculous picture captured of me with the curly paper party hat. Ha! I laugh in the face of curly paper. I EAT curly paper. Surely it doesn’t relate to my inability to stand without wobbling or falling down (see above picture), or that kegger I begged for. (Again, see above picture clearly showing my inability to stand.)
I claim the Bart Simpson defense: “I didn’t do it. No one saw me do it. You can’t prove a thing.”
It was that woman. The one I refer to as, “She-Who-Holds-The-Cookies”. It was her. Or She. Or her magnificent pocket that smells like liver and chicken and cookie things that makes me go weak in the knees and all drooly in the mouth. She’s a She-Devil, I tell you. A She-Devil. Making herself all smelly and squeaky voiced like an irresistible liver cookie.
We’ll talk more about this discretely. We need to make plans. Secret plans. Okay, okay … I’ll let you be my spokesperson. As long as you understand that I’m in control. After all, She-Who-Holds-The-Cookies lets me on the couch now. We don’t want to disrupt that arrangement now — do we?
We’ll talk again soon because She-Who-Holds-The-Cookies seems to be recently otherwise journalisticly occupied. That’s a good thing, no? Or yes? Or Down? Did you say, Down?
Ever since this has been posted, I’ve been trying to figure out an appropriate comment. Unsuccessful in that endeavor, I will mention that years ago I wrote a letter to my then girl friend’s family, and addressed it to one of their dogs. Yes, the mind gets a little warped while on deployment half ways around the world. I should also mention that this was in the day before personal computers, e-mail and satellite communications.
Thanks, Dave. I love your sense of humor, especially when I write one of those “example” posts on what not to do when writing a blog. I’ve been occupied with a number of other writing tasks lately, most notably, working on edits to two books and one of those I-think-this-is-a-story kind of journalistic efforts that is sucking the life from my otherwise lovely mind.
Perhaps we’ll dispense with posts from Wilson from now on and get back to the business of writing about real life here at the Bloggybirdery.
I also used to write the occasional letter with a grease pencil. Looked a lot like crayon, and implied that I was to mental to be allowed access to any sort of sharp objects. (Pens and pencils included!)
Now, that’s funny, Dave.
She-who-holds-the-cookies loves you very much and while she may be distracted by all things journalistic, you can rest assured that she is looking out for you. By the way, your mother had surgery, is doing well, and is quite happy to be a party animal again…no more little Wilson’s for her. She is quite content to be the baby again and is also trying not to draw attention to the fact that she is once again allowed on the bed.
Sweet puppy kisses to you and the cookie lady,
Dear My Wonderful Lady Lisa,
I remember your face first, and your scent, and your wonderful high voice. I remember I loved you before I loved anyone else.
Thank you for telling me about my mother. I’m sorry there won’t be any more Wilsons, but really … there’s no one like me and all my perfectness. Smiles. Smiles. Please, though, kiss my mother for me. I miss her and all her mommyness. She was the BEST!
I love you,
P.S. Would you please tell She-Who-Holds-The-Cookies that I need to be allowed on the bed too? Please?