Dog talk.

Christmas was good to us this year. I got a nice wad of new underwear, just like every year, and the dogs got a new dog. Well, they think it’s a dog. It’s a cat. But dogs just don’t get that. They think it’s just an unfortunate dog. They were piled on the end of the couch the other day when the cat walked by. I pointed my dog-speak translaterator at them.

“Here comes that new stuck-up dog.”
“I know. Did you smell his butt yet?”
“I tried; he won’t let me.”
“Did he smell your butt yet?”
“Are you kidding? I’m not letting that guy behind me!”
“You think he’s French?”
“No. Too small. German? Is he a deformed Dachtshund?”
“The world is cruel.”
“Does he have those dangly things under his tail like Wilson’s dog?”
“I can’t get behind him. He’s wiley.”
“You think they’re tumors?”
“They have them on their truck, too.”
“Still, everytime I see Wilson's dog walk by . . .”
“You got to turn around—“
“—and check one more time. Me too.”
“They should take him to the vet.”
“Tail cancer. Doggone shame.”
“You said it.”
“Here he comes again. Sniff his butt!”
“Ah crap: he jumped up on the back of the couch!”
They stare at the cat. The cat stares back.
“God, that is one ugly dog.”