George is a dog...
Hello, my name is George.
Mom put my name in the title and made sure to tell you that I'm a dog. Just in case.
"In case what?" I said.
But Mom said I didn't need to worry about every little thing and I just needed to get to the business of writing this post because it was 4:00 already and the post wasn't going to write itself.
Apparently Mom doesn't want to do this whole blog thing on her own anymore and I guess that means I'll be a regular fixture around here.
I usually pick up the slack where others can't.
It's a dog's life.
Besides Mom said something about sharing all aspects of her life with her readers and being completely real,
and how real for her is the fact that she has three un-bathed dogs that live in her back yard and destroy her lawn furniture.
Whoa, lady. No need to get snippy.
Perhaps if someone had a bone to chew on, the furniture would last longer.
At any rate.
Like I said before.
The name is George and I share my backyard with these two guys.
Panda is an old soul. At least that's what Mom says.
She also says that old souls don't like it when young souls bite their heels.
Whatevs. Old souls are too cranky if you ask me.
And this is Rodney.
Rodney thinks he's special because he can climb on furniture.
Like anybody cares about that.
I once took down an entire tree all by myself.
Well, it should be said that Dad and the youngest boy helped a little but mainly they just kept coming at it with this weird buzzing piece of machinery.
After a while I took to barking ferociously at the tree until it fell over from shock.
At which point, I picked up one of the broken branches and ran back and forth across the yard to show Dad and the boy how to move the limbs.
Occasionally I still move that branch from spot to spot and anytime Dad comes out in the yard I go stand on that old tree stump so he will remember the good times we had that day.
I can tell Dad is proud of me because he says "George is a good dog" every time he sees me.
And because knocking down a tree is a way bigger deal than sitting in a chair.
But, just so it's clear, I can do that too.
Tell me that doesn't just make your soul sing.
I'll leave you with a picture of me and the Rodster.
And next week I'll be back to tell you about the time we escaped while Mom was sleeping in till noon.
Moral of the story.
Give the dog a bone.