By Peppermint Patti
JOTR Columnist
First things first, Sophie. It’s not true that they found me in the pound.
I was a resident in the Humane Society, which is head and shoulders above the pound, thank you very much.
It’s true that they CALLED me a “stray,” but that does not properly describe my status at that time.
If I had truly been a “stray,” I would not have known where I was when the two-legger tricked me into his truck and put me behind bars.
Of course I knew EXACTLY where I was!
Really!
I had in my brain a precise map of every trash can in our neighborhood and at any time I could have sniffed my way back to the yard I’d left in a snit.
But it was not to be, Sophie, and here I am.
Marooned, so to speak.
A dog without kennel papers is like a two-legger without a passport.
That is my current status.
I am unable to prove to the satisfaction of two-leggers my true blue-blood identity, thus I am condemned to suffer indignities when my present two-leggers crack jokes about my apparent lowly provenance.
Lowly provenance, indeed!
I’d like to see them produce papers like the ones my first two-leggers had for me.
Oh, well.
It is our lot to make the best of life, Sophie, and I must say that an ample back yard with two humongous maples and a line of pines is, well, it could be a lot worse.
Those bush-butts getting on your nerves?
Me, too. Stand by, I’ll give them a scare.
