My dads are nuts

I’m new here. Can I please just stay under the old stereo behind the ratty sofa in the corner of the living room? No, of course not. I have to paraded around town (to art store of all places, on my first afternoon off the farm), dragged out of various cozy corners to socialize, and “brought out of my shell.” (Speaking of shells, did I mention I like to eat snails?)

But I get my revenge. Apparently I have big poop for a puppy, and I really despise having to do it while I’m on a leash. So Jay or David will spend an hour outside with me, idiotically babbling “go poddy! go poddy!” or something like that, but I manage to hold it until we get inside. Heh heh. And boy can I whiz!

Then there’s the whole escape thing. David can run fast–but I’ve got twice as many legs and something to prove. I stopped, eventually. But now I’m busted and have this tetherball-type apparatus in back that keeps me in a 15-foot orbit around a giant corkscrew embedded in the ground. I will admit it is nicer than having my big dumb humans right there on those rare occasions when I do have to go in the back yard.

They’re OK, I guess.