Something is afoot. There’s a rumbling in this house.
Wait, that’s just my stomach.
I’m hungry, but I’m always hungry, and lately Annie is coming over a lot and there are always delicious smells coming from the kitchen. Tonight, there were so many that I nearly drowned Ninja in my pool of drool. Good thing he’s shaped like Noah’s Ark and floats!
Seriously. Check out the video of us shadow boxing each other at www.facebook.com/The-Lost-Puppy-Case-143297706458124/. When he lays flat on the nightstand watching me, he’s kinda shaped like that. I have a question though. How can he be a big boy when his food dish is always full?
When I say big boy, I mean for a cat; he’s probably one-seventh of my weight. I’m the big boy in this house. When I walk on my back feet, I swear I’m as tall as Annie, but I think that’s probably because she’s a little person. She’s so short she needs to carry the Yellow Pages around in her back pocket just so she can see over the steering wheel. At least that’s what the Man says.
EDITOR: I’m sure he appreciates you throwing him under the bus.
Well, he isn’t too thrilled with me anyway. But it was only because I was hungry! When he was letting me off my chain to come in the house yesterday, I was looking out of the corner of my eye at the delicious snack sitting in the snowbank up by the mailbox. As soon as I gave him enough slack to unclasp me, I was off like a flash, had that pigeon in my mouth, and was back at the door in three seconds flat. The Man grabbed my collar, and this time I listened and went inside. But I dropped the dumb bird! And when I went outside later, it was gone! I was so mad I could eat a chair. Wait a minute. Did you say bus? Where’s the bus?! Maybe it will drop off some kids off to play with! I call it playing; the Man calls it tackling.
EDITOR: The Man also notes that Case is trying to eat the wooden kitchen chair stacked with eight 18-inch stone tiles that serves as the anchor to his gate to the stairs. He also notes Case is not a pigeon killer yet. He said it was probably the same bird (or one of three) Case caught earlier this year or his idiot cousin. Somehow it survived again.
That bird and I are pals. He just dawdles around and waits for me to give him a ride! In my mouth! It’s soft. I do wonder what it tastes like though. I’m guessing rat. But I’ve never had rat before, so I wouldn’t know. It’s gotta taste better than wooden chair. I have yet to find any nutritional value in that thing. You’d think splinters would deter me. Not so much. Also, if I want to grow up to be as big as Groot, I have to eat lots of wood. Makes sense to me. I mean if Baby Groot was around, I’d probably eat him too. But on second thought, he’s just so cute! Maybe I could get him to help me got out of my puppy jail. Ninja’s sure not any help in that regard. He just comes and goes as he pleases. Sometimes I envy that cat—never-ending food dish, his surprising ability to get over the barrier, nine lives.
How does that work anyway, the nine lives? Suppose I accidentally knocked him off the railing, and he failed to stick the landing. Does that count for one? Or what if tragedy struck, and I accidentally landed on him wrong? Not that I’m planning anything or that ever happened, I just need to know if he’s near death or not is all.
Of bigger concern to me is the rumbling I’ve been feeling (to get back to my original subject). I always get caught up on cats, birds and busses. The rumbling concerns a couple of words I heard like “engagement” or as the Man calls it, “the beginning of the end.” There’s another one I’ve been hearing: “wedding.” From what I’ve heard, guys have to dress up in a monkey suit for that, though from what I’ve perused of the Man’s order from Saks, it isn’t like any monkey suit I’ve ever seen. Now that I think about it, I’ve never seen a monkey suit, so I guess I wouldn’t throw it if it knew bananas at me. You know what I mean. But his order was decidedly informal.
Hmmm. I’ve never known a formal monkey for that matter. Never met any monkey period, except for my sock monkey buddy Orwell, who I’m no longer allowed to visit. The whole thing makes me suspicious. For some reason I always feel like he’s watching me with his cold, dead eyes even though I never see him.
Weird. I just checked my Facebook feed and the first thing I saw was an ad for “snazzy tuxedo rentals.” Dogs don’t wear tuxedos, not even snazzy ones. I dare someone to prove me wrong. Reminds me of a story about my Big Brother, but for some reason I don’t feel like giving out any personal details right now.
Where was I? Oh. Words. Like marriage. I guess that’s what happens at the wedding. I’ve heard it called “the beginning of the war,” which I guess is interspersed with various peace treaties, until “death” or as I’ve heard it referred to: “the end of war.” For some odd reason, I wonder how many lives the Man has left? Should I be worried about that? Now I’m wondering. I should probably be gentler with him. If he aged in dog years, he’s turning 294 in a couple of weeks. And he’s going to war soon after! I’d write myself a note to remind me to be gentle around the fragile older fella, but I’d probably get hungry and eat it. But it is paper which is made of wood, so maybe it is a good idea.
I keep hearing another word thrown around. “Honeymoon.” Funny word. I’ve heard it means…
EDITOR: You’re running out of space, Case. Also, the Man would like to know where you’re drawing such pernicious, rapacious false equivalencies from. He’s threatening to withhold half your treats every day.
Whoa. That’s a lot! You know, the usual: Infowars, CNN. I’d say a little birdie told me, but I’m no stool pigeon. Besides if his niece is going to stand in for me as both flower girl and ring bearer, and I might be stuck with four tiny Chihuahuas that I have to try not to break during the wedding and honeymoon, which I’ve heard called [redacted], I don’t feel very obligated to reveal my source.
Yo EDITOR, only include this part if the Man won’t see it.
Wanna know what I told the pigeon when I caught him yesterday.
Psssst. Petey. The Man is on to us.
He does live under the dormer right above the Man’s desk, ya know. Well, maybe not anymore. Nothing like inside information. I think his mama named him wrong. His first name should’ve been “Stool.”
No time for football this week, what with all the excitement of all the new words to learn. Case has decided to suspend his football mailbag and picks indefinitely. Case resides with the Man, HTF columnist Brian Miller, in Eveleth, MN. He can be reached by email at firstname.lastname@example.org. His blog page on Facebook is The Lost Puppy Case.