Duhhhhg couldn't summon up the nards to post tonight, so he left it to me.
Not surprising, really, considering how he started the day. Genius got up before his alarm, fed me, dorked around, and then went back to bed to "watch the news". Aaaaaaand an hour and a half later he wakes up and starts chasing his tail, blabbering something about having a meeting in 15 minutes.
Like it matters a tail shake to me. Meeting or no meeting, I was bound for the crate.
That damn crate.
It's bad enough for a regular work day, but today, he had the whiskers to leave me in there for 12 hours. He said something about having to meet with "the Brazilians". I don't even want to know what that means, but the next time he crates me for 12 hours, I'm going to play "poo sprinkler" again.
At least he took me for a run. The runs and the food are the only things keeping me from chomping through his jugular while he sleeps.
Today's run was a night run. W.T.F?!? How am I supposed to hunt squirrels in the dark? During the day, when I can see them, I have a fighting chance. Pointless collar and tags tip them off as soon as I move, so I have to play it cool, recon style, for a couple minutes to pick my shot. In the dark, jingling and jangling like a damn sleigh down the street, the squirrels just taunt me.
Dog I hate squirrels.
While I'm minding his ego, I mean blog, the slacker's reading. On his phone. He's reading a book... on his phone. Jeebus, how did I end up here? Sometimes I wish I was back at the Humane Society, or even back on the streets. Sure, the worms were, uhm, inconvenient, but the food was better.
He's been reading "The Art of Racing in the Rain" for a couple weeks. I yoinked his phone and read it last night. Spoiler alert - it's written by the guy's dog who bemoans the lack of opposing thumbs and not being human. Tripe. And totally unrealistic. So obviously written by the Homo Erectus. Like a dog would write a book complaining about being a dog. Everyone knows humans lost their thumbs, developed tales and integrity, and evolved into dogs.
Look at him. Sitting there. Foot in a bucket of ice. What an idiot.
But I gotta admit, the thumbs would be handy. It's not easy hitting the space bar with my tongue.
Good running,
Doug (by proxy)
Numbers: 3.1 miles in the dark with the idiot human.
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