Now that I’m going to be a diplo-pet, I’m on a quest to meet dogs of all breeds and backgrounds. True, I howl and growl at every dog I see back in my native New York (I don’t discriminate; I dislike them all equally), but on the road for the past few weeks — crossing state borders, no less — I’ve been trying to be more open-minded.
First, I met my cousins: two dogs who live in a land called Ohio. They are a kind of dog called boxer, which as far as I can tell just means huge and slobbery. And they like to sniff stuff, including me. I tried so hard to get away, but they just kept charging me. I was so miserable with those boxers that I didn’t even notice the cat, who I’m sure was horrible too, judging by every other cat I’ve met. The only good thing about Ohio was a local foodstuff called “Snausage.”
Then I crossed into Illinois and spent a few nights with two dogs called golden retrievers. The old one was okay but the young one liked to jump on me. I barked and barked at her to get off but it did no good. I had to climb on tables to save myself! Humph. No respect for her elders. I could live without that golden retriever. You know what else I could live without? The cat that pounced on me in the middle of the night. I let out a howl that could probably be heard by those Ohio boxers.
Across another border, in Missouri, there was a tan chihuahua. His owners fed him a foreign food that was very good. It was wet. (In my native New York, food only seems to come in the dry variety.) This little chihuahua was slow enough that I could steal his delicious wet food, so he’s alright by me. Then two tiny, fluffy black dogs joined us. And get this: they come from a neighborhood called “Dog Town”! But in Dog Town they seem to speak in a yippy little bark that I don’t know, and not even the chihuahua could translate it for me. I just assumed they were saying, “Eat my wet food too,” and so I did.