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The inner workings of the mind of Malcolm, distinguished canine.
Monday, December 29, 2003
Log 008:
A very Merry Christmas to me, indeed.
I can effectively sum up the Yuletide festivities in three words, my dear readers:
Sequined Bow Tie.
On Christmas morning, the family spent a solid ten minutes laughing over the white, Velcro(TM) bowtie that Tricia bestowed upon my fearless owner for the sole purpose of humiliating me. Lisa attached it around my neck immediately upon opening the package. She did not even give me a scant moment to attempt to scurry away from their gift-opening follies; she grabbed me and dressed me like a cheap version of Tommy Tune without even asking my permission beforehand.
I have been reading of the teachings of the Dalai Lama and Ghandi of late, and I decided to try a peaceful, calming approach. I relaxed and thought of the good I was doing by bringing smiles to the faces of those in the room; how my sacrifice of dignity would be rewarded by good karma and other such nonsensical concepts from the Eastern world. There must be a higher purpose to my suffering. Yet, after nearly twenty minutes, I was able to retreat quickly and without being noticed to my bed. I admit I did attempt a violent removal of the bowtie using the edge of my basket (which I have quietly gnawed to a rough edge in times of opposible digit frustration) and a pair of pliers, but I was unable to muster the strength to drag the pliers to my basket from the toolbox. Nor could I manage to plug in the electric hedgetrimmer I found in the shed. But as the good Lord knows, I did make every attempt to rid myself of the noxious apparel.
The question I pose to humanity is this: What is it about a five-pound, white-and-rich-cream-colored chihuahua mix that drives you to depraved acts of costuming? Fellows like myself do not deserve such treatment; it is degrading and vile to treat a canine differently based solely on his or her small stature. I have just as much pride and intellectual prowess as the tallest Doberman pinscher. Yet, I receive substandard treatment and minimal respect because of my, quote-cuteness-unquote. I have every intention of contacting the ACLU in the New Year. But, first, I must take care of two items on my immediate schedule. One: destroy the Dalai Lama and Ghandi books and pamphlets. Second: Route anthrax-filled envelopes to the company headquarters of Sparkled Bow-Wow Pet Costumes, Inc. Alert them via the media that small canines are no longer going to take puffy sweaters, small rain slickers and anything with sequins lying down. We Shall Overcome; I swear it.
All blessings in the New Year,
Malcolm
A very Merry Christmas to me, indeed.
I can effectively sum up the Yuletide festivities in three words, my dear readers:
Sequined Bow Tie.
On Christmas morning, the family spent a solid ten minutes laughing over the white, Velcro(TM) bowtie that Tricia bestowed upon my fearless owner for the sole purpose of humiliating me. Lisa attached it around my neck immediately upon opening the package. She did not even give me a scant moment to attempt to scurry away from their gift-opening follies; she grabbed me and dressed me like a cheap version of Tommy Tune without even asking my permission beforehand.
I have been reading of the teachings of the Dalai Lama and Ghandi of late, and I decided to try a peaceful, calming approach. I relaxed and thought of the good I was doing by bringing smiles to the faces of those in the room; how my sacrifice of dignity would be rewarded by good karma and other such nonsensical concepts from the Eastern world. There must be a higher purpose to my suffering. Yet, after nearly twenty minutes, I was able to retreat quickly and without being noticed to my bed. I admit I did attempt a violent removal of the bowtie using the edge of my basket (which I have quietly gnawed to a rough edge in times of opposible digit frustration) and a pair of pliers, but I was unable to muster the strength to drag the pliers to my basket from the toolbox. Nor could I manage to plug in the electric hedgetrimmer I found in the shed. But as the good Lord knows, I did make every attempt to rid myself of the noxious apparel.
The question I pose to humanity is this: What is it about a five-pound, white-and-rich-cream-colored chihuahua mix that drives you to depraved acts of costuming? Fellows like myself do not deserve such treatment; it is degrading and vile to treat a canine differently based solely on his or her small stature. I have just as much pride and intellectual prowess as the tallest Doberman pinscher. Yet, I receive substandard treatment and minimal respect because of my, quote-cuteness-unquote. I have every intention of contacting the ACLU in the New Year. But, first, I must take care of two items on my immediate schedule. One: destroy the Dalai Lama and Ghandi books and pamphlets. Second: Route anthrax-filled envelopes to the company headquarters of Sparkled Bow-Wow Pet Costumes, Inc. Alert them via the media that small canines are no longer going to take puffy sweaters, small rain slickers and anything with sequins lying down. We Shall Overcome; I swear it.
All blessings in the New Year,
Malcolm
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