(As usual, I’ve invited a guest writer to fill my spot on the blog. George is the egotistical magical familiar from the Magical Drool Mysteries. If I’d had more time, I would’ve found someone else, but beggars can’t be choosers. This is slightly early, however as I sincerely doubt anyone is reading, it shouldn’t matter.)
Huffpuffhuffpuff. Rabbit, your delicious smelltaste is filling my head. Soon, you will be in the stewpot. I’ve never had bunny, but by the way you make me drool, you must be better than tuna fudge.
My legs aren’t designed for long distance running, that doesn’t mean I can’t still run fast.
That is, if I want to.
Maybe Packmom has some tuna fudge for me.
Sniff. Hmm. What’s that smelltaste calling to me? It’s lovely, a cross between rotting vegetables and decaying skin.
I follow the smelltaste to a small clump of dark berries. There is no way to resist the call, I snarf up a few. They are delicate, tasting of rabbit and greens. My body wants to dive into the pile and roll…
Mindy: George, NO! I can’t write this. It’s disgusting. Can’t you do something else? Like something magical? Save Karly, your Girlpup witch-in-training from some monster? Anything that doesn’t have to do with rabbit poo? Or barf? Or farts?
George: To quote you, “No.” I’m a dog. It’s what I do, when I’m not teaching Karly about her legacy or saving the day.
Mindy: This is a blog; they don’t want to know about your idea of a snack. Why don’t you tell me something that makes you unique?
George: Look, Lady-With-The-Hands, I came to you after your stupid springers answered my pee-mail. They assured me, in their spaniel dumb way, that you spoke excellent dog. All your years of training dogs made you uniquely qualified to tell my story. I should’ve realized that a breed that will do anything for a cookie was too stupid to answer my ad.
Mindy: Hey, don’t talk about my dogs that way. When you discussed this with my pack, I agreed to help with your tale. I didn’t expect you to be disgusting and insist on putting us all down.
George: Not my fault you’re imperfect. Nothing like my excellence. If I could use a computer, I’d write my own story and get it right. My paws are made for better things, like digging. And my thumbs are set too high to type.
Mindy: Are you sure you’re perfect? I mean, if you can’t use a computer, what good are you?
George: That’s what Peeps are for, to help us dogs when we have other, more important, things to do.
Mandy: Uh huh. Who exactly do you think is writing your tale?
George: That’s a dumb question. You.
Mandy: As you’ve said before, Peeps don’t understand dogs. So, actually, I’m a one of those dumb springers who answered your Pee-mail. On the Internet, no one can tell you’re a dog. And unlike you, I can type.