Ryan’s pretty downtrodden after some thing that I don’t understand happened. He sits on the couch and stares at that glowy box for hours on end and yells stuff about the Wild and the Avalanch and f***ing Peter Forsberg. I have no idea what any of what I just typed means, but I know Ryan’s been pretty agitated, more than usual, when he’s watching the glowy box.
Oh. Right. I’m Carmel. I’m a dog. Hell yeah I’m blogging. I’d like to see Lassie hyperlink. Bitch. For the record, neither Ryan nor I am happy with my name. It was given by his family when I moved in with them. Previously, I was known as Janice. I liked Janice better.
Since Ryan is still a little shaken up, and when he’s at work I’ve been teaching myself to type, I figured I would go ahead and fill in for him while he weeps softly in the corner. I am, after all Ryan’s only man’s best friend. Looking at his past couple posts, I clearly don’t have to put up an effort. I mean, except for not licking my crotch for 35 minutes straight. That’ll be tough.
I don’t know a heck of a lot about your people sports, but I am something of a pro at fetch. I win like every time I play. The key is to keep your eye on the ball. Sometimes, those throwers think they’ll be clever and hold on to the ball. Then, and most dogs don’t get this, just wait for the ball to stop and then pick it up! It saves embarrassment. And then you have the ball instead of Tossy McGee. And if you don’t give the ball back, you don’t have to go get it again. It’s not that hard a game, dogs.
All right. That’s all I got. This writing thing sucks. Next time some lady comes up to talk to Ryan (ha!) I’m dropping a deuce right then and there. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go sleep for about 17 hours.
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