When I interview other dogs, I always ask if they have bad
hair days. There’s a good reason I ask. Every morning, I have to go through
this ordeal with Dad.
He holds the comb in his hand like it’s a weapon and then he
expects me to jump in his lap, eager to have him grab my face and hold me in
weird positions while he pulls that thing through my hair. Oh, yeah, he’s
telling me what a good boy I am the whole time I’m in contortions.
How could I be anything else – caught in a vise grip with him yanking me this way and that?
It’s not easy being a dog – especially not one who’s
supposed to look well-groomed and handsome all the time. I’d rather have fun,
roll in some interesting smells, and get my feet all muddy.
I don’t understand the purpose of this morning ritual but
one thing I’ve learned – there’s a treat at the end. Makes it all worthwhile.
Wonder if people see life the same way?
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