Until this morning, I was under the impression that everyday was National Dog Day. So you can imagine my confusion when a couple of elderly bipeds I’d never met before wished me a “Happy National Dog Day” and offered me half a plate of scrambled eggs. Obviously, I didn’t know how to respond to such a salutation, but I accepted the eggs nevertheless, and farted quietly to show my appreciation.
Turns out the bipeds are the parents of my Human Butler. They arrived the night before, unannounced, and incurred the full extent of my wrath. Old bipeds alarm me, for reasons I can’t pinpoint, and their unheralded appearance awakens in me an uncontrollable desire to express my chronic displeasure with unscheduled arrivals and departures.
Anyway, it occurs to me on National Dog Day that it might be good to know where you come from. Having been raised in an orphanage for the first few months of my then, inconsequential life, I tend to overlook the significance of staying in touch with my progenitors. Historically, a strand or two of shared DNA just hasn’t seemed enough to justify any attempt to reconnect with my whoring and irresponsible begetters – (being dumped on the side of the road is hard to reconcile.) But after taking the measure of The Biped’s parents, I’m starting to wonder if maybe I should reconsider.
The old man is very good at scratching behind my ears, and seemingly indifferent to my loudest barks. And the old lady smells like peppermint and cashews. Which is nice.
Anyway, Happy National Dog Day.
Celebrate with family, whatever that means to you.
Freddy