4est_4est_Gump
Run Forrest! RUN!
- Joined
- Sep 19, 2011
- Posts
- 89,007
The Queen's long-haired dachshund is fairly well neglected by all, the Queen is constantly busy, especially when at "rest," Princess resents the hell out of having to feed and water her while I refuse to personalize pets as valuable family members; if they don't hunt, they have no value to me other than to harass each and every visitor as if it were the first time they had ever encountered them.
The short-haired mini-dachs of my Princess is a pampered spoiled little caricature of her owner who buys it special beds, treats and coats for inclement weather. It rules the roost a lot like Master-Blaster ruled Thunder Dome and when it comes to its treats, rawhides and bones it is a green-eyed two-headed version of Cerberus. If the Queen's pooch has a prize, Princess and the beady-eyed rat confiscate it. The Queen's dog then lies in wait for a weak moment in which to rush in and seize her rightful booty. The last bone of contention was a rawhide that each was bound and determined to hide somewhere in the house from the other, but while they see poorly, wiener dogs have a keen sense of smell and hiding it was nothing more than a continual Mission Impossible rerun.
Saturday, the Queen and Princess departed for their weekly shopping excursion with the hell hound in tow and the forgotten dog racing alongside the car in a vain attempt at, "Me too!" Soon the trio was gone, but like an arrow loosed upon an orc by an elf, the hairy noodle streaked for the back door and yelped, "Let me in!"
I had no more than opened and closed the door when she was back with rawhide in mouth demanding to be let out. In triumph she carried out that well-chewed treasure, disappeared over the hill and returned with great pride in about five minutes sans rawhide.
Despite all the consternation and commotion from the lower household nobility later that evening, I kept the little big dog's secret and she lay happily at my feet all evening watching the little yapper rush to and fro frantically searching for that which was long gone content at having had the last bark.
The short-haired mini-dachs of my Princess is a pampered spoiled little caricature of her owner who buys it special beds, treats and coats for inclement weather. It rules the roost a lot like Master-Blaster ruled Thunder Dome and when it comes to its treats, rawhides and bones it is a green-eyed two-headed version of Cerberus. If the Queen's pooch has a prize, Princess and the beady-eyed rat confiscate it. The Queen's dog then lies in wait for a weak moment in which to rush in and seize her rightful booty. The last bone of contention was a rawhide that each was bound and determined to hide somewhere in the house from the other, but while they see poorly, wiener dogs have a keen sense of smell and hiding it was nothing more than a continual Mission Impossible rerun.
Saturday, the Queen and Princess departed for their weekly shopping excursion with the hell hound in tow and the forgotten dog racing alongside the car in a vain attempt at, "Me too!" Soon the trio was gone, but like an arrow loosed upon an orc by an elf, the hairy noodle streaked for the back door and yelped, "Let me in!"
I had no more than opened and closed the door when she was back with rawhide in mouth demanding to be let out. In triumph she carried out that well-chewed treasure, disappeared over the hill and returned with great pride in about five minutes sans rawhide.
Despite all the consternation and commotion from the lower household nobility later that evening, I kept the little big dog's secret and she lay happily at my feet all evening watching the little yapper rush to and fro frantically searching for that which was long gone content at having had the last bark.
