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?