Sorry, what was I saying? Oh, yes: Real Life. As absolutely no one reading this blog knows, my dear adopted Brussels Griffon named Oliver passed away on Thanksgiving Day 2014 around 9:30 p.m. We have no idea what happened to the poor pup, although he was almost 10 years old. Many smaller breeds live longer than that, but it seems it was just his time as there was no indication whatsoever that he was in poor health in any way. We think there was some sort of internal rupture, but we didn't have the heart to get an autopsy performed, so we buried the little guy in the backyard that night. Both Mrs. Pad and I did our best to busy ourselves the next day with cleaning up after the previous day's horribly interrupted festivities, but it was all for naught: we couldn't keep our tears at bay. At length we decided the best thing for both of us to do was brave the Black Friday crowds and visit a pet store in our area. Shortly after arriving, we found an adorable 8-week old Maltese, and we simply fell in love with him. We took him home and my wife named him Chuckie after the Texas Christian University defensive back Chucky Hunter. Of course, we didn't use the same spelling and neither Mrs. Pad nor I really watch TCU football or have any connection whatsoever to TCU, but my wife tends to do this sort of thing. She also named our first dog Goober -- he is a very self-important Shih Tzu and was a wedding present from my mother-in-law.
|Mr. Chuckie takes a break from terrorizing Goober to explore the back yard.|
|Mr. Goober blinks in the sun like the crotchedy old man he is.|
|The boys call a temporary truce, heralding the End of Days.|
Stick with me -- there is a point to all of this.
SO... we quickly developed a suspicion as to why Mr. Chuckie had languished at the pet store an abnormally long time: namely, he is possessed by the Devil. Actually, he's an adorable little guy, but he apparently has an endless supply of energy (even for a puppy) and he seems to enjoy getting into trouble and terrorizing poor Goober (Goober, you must know, is a grumpy old man -- soon to be 11 years old -- and is in no mood at all to be poked, prodded, and harassed by some insolent young upstart).
Anyway, we've had the Little Terror for slightly more than three months now, but it was just the other day he managed to bolt out the front door for an unsupervised tour of the neighborhood and its fascinating (I assume) smells. I, naturally, bolted after him (or at least I shall use that dashing term to describe my corpulent self's attempted bolt-like effort) and proceeded to chase him up and down the street while the Living Cotton Ball with Paws shoved his snout into every crevice he could find within a hundred feet of his home. I remained in hot pursuit. At that point, Mr. I-Give-ADD-a-Bad-Name saw an interesting weed or something out of the corner of his eye and suddenly changed direction. This put me in danger of seriously crushing him unless I took evasive action. Doing so, however, resulted in me eating some asphalt.
We eventually corralled the Fluffaluphogus, but my palms and knees had suffered some nasty lacerations. I further discovered I must have landed hard on my right arm because the wrist, elbow, and shoulder were very sore the next day and it still hurts to move them in certain directions.
I tell you all of this to say: DON'T GET A MALTESE!!! Just kidding -- he's a total cuddlebug when he isn't busy discovering new ways to destroy the house. I tell you this because, like many of you, I use my hands to play LOTRO and this episode will likely make me rather less effective until I heal (How is anyone supposed to tell the difference? -- Mrs. Pad).
Pray for my speedy recovery. The fate of Middle-earth depends upon it.
Alright, probably not. But it would be nice of you to do it, all the same.
Master of Toons