OLD MUTTS, NEW PUPS, AND WILD RUNTS
Woof, Kids!
My blazing keyboard (see, behind me, it is kind of blazing, well something sure is) tells me it is Friday and zoom-a-zoom...which means exactly...what? Um, that...it is Saturday Eve, which is good I always say.
Mutts and pups and peeps of all ages and sizes, what do have to say and think about Chanel? You know, the oldest living dog. That's the chatter anyway, who knows for certain. I always wonder about absolute statements like that. Could you kind of prove it? In all the little nooks and crannies (love me some nooks and crans) of the entire world, this partik canine is the oldest. Okay, we'll let it stand, but we're not totally convinced.
Frankly, I think blasting her age all over the globe is rather rude and uncouth. However, she is 147 by the old canine-calendar and that is something to howl about. Still, you just do NOT talk age with a girl. Ever. Just isn't done. Trust me.
Since it's been blabbed, the Diva-Dog sends a wag-o-the-tail to that white-haired weenie dog. Keep on keeping on! You make us proud.
Um, speaking of amazing longevity of all things Dachshund, the Diva came nose-to-nose with a tiny, and I MEAN tiny, black one right here on my floor. Man, that little guy could bark. Major barking. Whew. He's a new kid on the block, er, floor, and he hangs out with his hound-buddy...who is larger. Hey, they seem nice enough. Peeps are nice and friendly types. Time will tell on all things new dogs on the floor.
Immediately after meeting and, ah, greeting the two tenth floor newbies, what do you suppose I came upon next? A rather wild 'n crazy little Yorkie or Silkie or something ee-ie...OFF-LEASH and running wild and crazy down a hallway right into my elevator. Yikes, things are running a muck around here. Note to self...tell office to write, yet another, email and/or memo about dogs. This time about running wild in the corridors rather than proper elevator transporting and doing biz on the Poop Deck, rather, Pool Deck.
Pups, this Yorkie (or whatev)...well, talk about dynamite in small packages. Good Lord, that rangy-snip-of-a-dawg was a spazzzz and didn't even have Betty Davis eyes. Know what I'm sayin'?
Last evening Moolie thinks she miffed some guy in the lush and plush lobby. Yeah, he and his K-9 were hanging outside near the valet station and his mutt strolled on over to exchange sniffs with the Diva. Hey, he was cute and pretty friendly and we were socializing our paws off. Then Moolie (always inserting the designer or off-brand shoe into mouth) pipes up and offers her lame opinion that they must be new residents to the building. Well, NO, they were not, as a matter of fact. The hound-owner, who really was nice as could be, quickly straightened her right on out with the little factoid that this fellow was THE first pup in this flashy and sassy towering domicile. Okay, wrong again!!
Listen, I'm taking paws from blazing laptop and going to stand by the door to go out into this wacky world of condo-city. Man, no telling what action I'm missing by just tapping these keys. See 'round the Pool Deck or the URL.
Bark at me!
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