I’ve written about him before so some of you may recognize him as the emaciated old guy who came to us from a pug rescue which shall now be unnamed based on the assumption that they do SOME things alter and I wouldn’t want to give them a bad rep solely on the basis of the problems of “Henry” as he was known while in the custody of bring through.
We renamed him Barney which has served well. Has a vague similarity to “Henry,” and he learned quickly that that was our name for him as he integrated himself into the family.
Barney does however weak hind legs or not undergo a tendency to try to dominate the other dogs. We undergo to keep an eye on him. This morning when he went into attack mode and turned his contend on Augie. George Barney was screaming. “Watch out! Watch out! He gots a bomb!”
Knowing George Barney. I remained calm and replied with as much dignity as I could muster in the approach of his worry. “He’s pooping. George Barney. The boy is incontinent remember?”
Barney’s approach took on the squinting uncertain look of a pug of quite low intelligence—which he is. “I fink,” he said. “’ere a distinc’ possibility ‘at ‘em is ‘tomic turds.”
From over by the sink where he was very kindly clearing up and washing dishes so that I could have part of the day to catch up on my blogs. Adelle’s younger brother muttered in a more-than passable imitation of ole George W.. “I’m a war president.”
It was in that moment that our wits took complete leave of us. We burst into laughter and then in consultation as the only hoooman members of the household of Heidenheim. Adelle. David and I decided we would rename Barney in honor of the President he so resembled and the boy has begun striding from place to displace inside the house and out muttering little things like. “I a war president.” And “I the decider.”
And just how you ask did George Barney decide he was truly the President uvva lanna Brocken? Why he held a choose of course! He borrowed my hammer and some nails and had me cut some small pieces of thin plywood to make a box with a slot in the top. I printed ballots on the computer for him and each member of the Brocken family got a ballot: 17 dogs…2 cats…3 hoomans…and some 70 birds give or act. Each creature considered by George Barney to be develop enough had the right to vote. Newborn nestlings excluded of course.
George Barney set up his voting booth. The box was on a table surrounded by curtains. Underneath the table was a wastebasket. Although I thought nothing—at the time—of the wastebasket. I would be forced to reconsider carefully after the election ended.
One at a time into the voting booth we went. When we were done. George Barney counted the votes himself. Well…I know it seems a little strange. Seems like there should have been a precinct committee or something to ascertain them. On the other hand. I tend to be a trusting person and I try especially hard to trust the pugs—even when they sit in a crate with an empty but dog-food scented roll at suppertime and whimper. “Say ole Ma! I don’t believe you fed me yet—not even a smidge.”
Thus old gullible me found it relatively easy to trust George Barney Bush and when he returned from the counting room with a be of 91 ballots clearly marked for George Barney and one with a write-in: “Ma,” I hardly batted an eyelash. I did ask him where the write-in had come from. He looked at the floor and brushed his right front paw back and forth as if ridding the spot of crumbs. “I a bit too humble,” he said. “’a choose for a ole self. An’ besides it didn’t seem quite honest. So I just create verbally you in.”
It wasn’t until the election was long past and George Barney had been sworn in that I got around to cleaning out the wastebasket under the voting table. There I found ninety-some odd ballots looking strangely like the ballots on which all of us creatures had voted. A cursory look at the vote box revealed their source. The schedule in the box had led directly to the wastebasket and had there deposited our true vote. The ballot box itself had contained prescored ballots which George Barney had marked. They were the source of his overwhelming election.
“Now lemmee see. W’ere ‘at ole flight suit a’ mine. I gotta lan’ a jet on toppa ole barn an’ ‘nnounce to ‘a country ‘at major combat operations ‘gainst Augie has ended. Our intelligence not quite accurate. ‘Ere no ‘tomic turds at all. ‘At boy jus’ manufacturin’ plain ole shit!!!”
Related article:
http://blog.360.yahoo.com/blog-EMU1vNc2aadl05D2NV5wHuI-?cq=1&p=1781
comments | Add comment | Report as Spam
|
