The Gardens - In the Beginning

Friday, September 3, 2010

The Dubious Connoisseur

Dustin dog's unplanned addition at little fourth acre gardens caused quite a stir with the feline trio for months.  I think the phrase floating among them was on the jest of pain-in-the-butt, although that is putting it rather kindly, as their exact thoughts were of a more colorful nature.  He wanted them his buddies...they wanted him their dead toy.  He perked up his face to play...they perked up their claws to fray.  He tried perching in high places...human curtailed that misguided notion.  Don't get me wrong, he's as cute as cute can be; but in bed I'm more partial to a marvelous man physique, than Dustin dog's body cuddling next to me.  Many, many pet doc appointments to curb his addiction to objectionable feline particles of delectable delights.  He followed the program and progressed quite well, but has been found to have lately strayed from the straight and narrow.  His mission to be among felines as one of their own, perhaps screwed up his concept of where a dog should draw the line and keep dignity intact.

Jesse doesn't acknowledge Dustin existence too much...never has...never will.  He's not even considered the cause of this dog's plunge into disgrace.  Andee's grown quite fond of his little bowwow...his ticket to rising up through the feline ranks, me thinks.  Rub-a-dub, rub-a-dab...Andee keeps him well marked; he needs him as dogcat, so he'll be bottom of heap.  My guess it's Miss Zoe, (as he insists on treating her attacks as jesters of play)...who puts in his head if he inputs what they output, he's on the fast track to that dogcat status just out of his reach - she's known for her diabolically twisted sense of dry humor.  I'm told felines don't know the concept of smiling, but I swear each time Dustin dog has fallen from grace, the corners of her mouth twist slightly into the hint of a smile of a most devilish nature.

We've scheduled another get-together with the pet doc, hoping we've missed some other way of helping him curtail his pitiful passion of plucking those little brown goodies out of the litter for another midnight snack.  Wish him luck...he needs it...Miss Zoe has his number BIG TIME, and he's so out-of-his-league when he's playing her game.  Poor baby...

Confession of a Turd Aficionado


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