Playing The Big Leagues

Dear Goddamned Puppy,

It is true that the world loves you, and that everyone thinks you’re cute.

Well, almost everyone. You see, puppy, the Beagle, whose house you’re staying at, is older than you. She’s had puppies – I’m guessing lots of them.

You also come from different backgrounds. You are being raised under the ivy, spending your days at a medical school among the intelligentsia; she spent her formative years cooking meth in a trailer park. (While some may argue with my assessment of her youth, it’s really the only thing that explains her teeth.)

Last night when you arrived you wanted to play, and play she did, you with your sweet, high-pitched terrier whine, and she with her Harley growl. You pleaded with her to play. She obliged: Oh, you want to PLAY???

You ran her, but she ran you right back. Much is made of the need for balance in play, first one, then the other taking the lead. The Beagle rejects that theory, so the two of you ran up onto couches, under legs, into computers, you hiding then teasing, pouncing then retreating. Your dad even distracted the Beagz with a squeaky toy, embarrassingly easy if you ask me.

Today, however, is a different story. The Beagle is tired. Or at least tired of you. both

We will be spending the day together, all three of us. It will not do for you to whine for the next eight hours while the Beagle ignores you. It’s not proud, puppy. Not proud at all.


Your Temporary Person

Video here: nelramychase


  1. Temporary!? So cute. I like the “failed foster” label. It would fit me to a T, therefore I will never, ever, even try to foster, unless perchance I lose the rest of my marbles or want a divorce.

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