SUMMERTIME, AND THE LIVIN' IS EASY

Okay, here’s where mom biped seems to have gone a wee bit overboard with me – fashion.  I know there are canine websites where mom bipeds are making a fortune dressing their pups [not to mention cats (see my sisters below)] in the frilliest flowerdiest gag-inducing outfits, usually on a Monday, and almost always with matching hats.   I have developed great compassion for my sister felines, which doesn’t happen often, but seriously, I feel gut-wrenching pain on their behalf!



And from what I hear through the grapevine, none of these loving, yet deranged, bipeds EVER ask our opinions about whether we fur-slathered darlings actually WANT to wear clothing!  I’m pretty sure that my mom biped wants to create a reality show around me, or at the very least, to put me on a Parisian runway.  What seems really oxymoronish is that she removes my natural curly clothing, replaces it with some multicolored freakish costume, tells me to say “cheeeeeese!” when taking my photo, and then, AND THEN … she insists she’s gonna take all my curly hair-in-a-pile and knit me a sweater for the winter, or stuff a dog bed with it!  I ask you, is this the thinking of a normal biped?



Serious, I don’t know, will somebody please private-message me and give me an ounce of hope that this is considered normal?  I think this is a fair request, since I know bipeds are constantly asking each other on social media if their dogs’ behaviors are “normal.”  But I suppose that’s a topic for another Monday.

Watch your backs, fellow fur-bearers, the bipeds are lurking with scissors and cameras.

Yours ever-so-truly,

Mrs. Minnie-furless

REVENGE IS SWEET

 Once Upon A Time, I lived with my five wee canine siblings.  Then my life changed forever, when my loving and needy bipeds adopted me – into a household of felines.
I ask you, is this rational behavior?  I suspect not.  Nevertheless, I soon found myself surrounded by three maniacal, foul-mouthed, and hairball-barfing mutants from another planet who refused to share their toys or food with me.
Then one miraculous day, a Monday, I believe, another alien cat spontaneously erupted from under the deck, squawling for help, and  like a stupefying curly-coiffed Supergirl, I rushed forth to save the day.  Since I rescued the squawly ball of fur, I felt entitled to name him … Squawl Ball.  But noooooo, the mommy biped wouldn’t have it.  Instead, she insisted on calling him Louis (gag), after yet another withering ancestor.  Let me tell you, Squawl Ball is a predestined moniker, although Loucifer is sometimes apropos.
As you can see, Squawl is also a perverse practical joker who takes abnormal joy in scaring me away from my own toy box, like a Chucky Doll, except with fur and claws.
But you know, I ain’t totally without cerebral uniqueness.  Because one day (a Monday), I discovered that Squawl was really useful for something besides leaving pawprints in my food and hoarding my toys.  He makes an excellent cushion.  See?

Yes, I had to display my  “innocent” face (taught to me by the dad biped) to the mom biped who stalks me with a camera and convince her that Squawl actually enjoys being squooshed.  She bought it.

I suppose this is enough unasked-for information for this Monday, and since Squawl hasn’t been squooshed today, I’d better go make myself useful and earn my food.  Which is another subject, that stuff the bipeds call “food.”  I’ll tell you about that next week, so just hold tight.

Toodle-oooo,

Mrs. Minnifur (another of the biped’s idea of cleverness)

A DOG BY ANY OTHER NAME .....

Hellooooo!  So now that I have my own social media page, I thought it only fair to share my story so you can see for yourself that I am indeed as sweet and humble as any other canine in the blogosphere.

My early baby life is but a distant fog, but I suspect I was switched at the hospital.  They tell me I was born on a Monday, and that I am a Pom-a-Poo.  I don’t buy that malarkey for a minute.  Everybody knows that PPs are born only on Wednesdays.  Since I was born on a Monday, I know in my heart that I’m a full-breed Italian Spinoni.  And stop laughing, that’s not a dessert.  My undercover sources told me that my birth name was Princess La-Dee-Dah Sneed of Moldova.  I also suspect that they gave me growth-stunting tobacco juice in my formula, thus passing me off as this PP.  This is probably why I’m prone to smoking cigars after the bipeds have sacked in for the night.

 

I just want y’all to know that, even though I began life as royalty, my adoptive bipeds are really impeccable and praiseworthy, and I'm exquisitely happy.  However, I've never been particularly in love with the namby-pamby moniker my adoptive bipeds foisted on me -– "Minnie Kay"!  Gag. They could have kept my royal name, but nooooooo, they had to re-name me after the mommie biped’s wizened maternal ancestor.  They think it’s clever to name their furred children after family members.  There's a rumor that, long before me, there was a feline in this household named … Muppet!  I’m afraid to ask daddy biped about his highly-decorated ancestor, General Muppet Overstreet, in the Revolutionary War.

I may have overstayed my welcome into techno society, so I'll end by requesting that if you think that I’m ethereal and winsome, please, share with your international friends.  Particularly in Europe, where I may someday meet my original birth family.  Ta-ta until next Monday, when I'll fill you in on my daily activities whilst living in a household of (gasp!) felines.