Off The Wall: 49 In Dog Years

According to the paperwork, I came into the world on this day seven years ago. My mother, as many of you know, was a bit of a slut, and my father an unapologetic philanderer – a real dog, or so I’m told. Personally, I have no recollection of either parent, much less those early days I spent on the mean streets of Bakersfield, where I roamed unsupervised for the first few months of life, living off the fat of the land. Today however, I remain most grateful to The Biped who saved me from that Dickensian fate and confess to enjoying his company more and more with every passing year. Even when he pimps me out to the masses in the course of producing another shameless plug for God-knows what, my Human Butler has become a source of great comfort, especially in these uncertain times. As you’ll see in the attached video, I’m pleased to return the favor, and the comfort, when and as I can.

In other words, Happy Birthday to me. I’m ready for my close-up and pleased to do what I can to help keep the lights on in this modest hovel we now call home.



PS I’m told that seven is forty-nine in dog years. WTF? Someone please explain, stat.

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