I didn’t get into any mischief this weekend.
I know right? t was such an auspicious occasion that the Mama felt a need to record it on the calendar for posterity.
I do believe that my feelings are hurt by her cheekiness.
I couldn’t feign sadness for long though. She had meat, which forgives a lot of sins at Casa de Kolchak, plus I had to come up with something at least mildly entertaining to post today.
It’s Mischief Monday. That implies that in order to celebrate it, some sort of mischief has to have occurred. I struggle with this. Being the fine, upstanding, completely awesome
puggle that I am, I rarely get into trouble. (And if you buy that, I’ve got a bridge I’ll sell ya, real cheap.) So I dug deep in the Kolchak Puggle vault of vastly awesome stories, to bring you:
Kolchak Puggle: Squirrel Hunter Extraordinaire
That’s right. I hunt squirrels like a boss. I’m a regular woofing Davy Crockett. It all happened a few years back. I was but a young pup, full of
piss and vinegar vim and vigor. It was a bright sunny day. I didn’t have a care in the world.
And then it happened.
Out of the corner of my eagle eye, I saw him.
Not my actual Squirrel.
This is a dramatic representation.
That little vermin slunk across my yard.
Belly low to the ground. Frizzy tail, blowing in the breeze. Acting like he owned the place.
I was just a pup, but I had heard of these “squirrels” before. The Mama hated them. To be fair, she had good reason
. Squirrels had really screwed her over. Watching “Fluffy” creep across my yard, I knew that this might be my one chance to avenge my Mama.
I was going to catch that squirrel and just like a cat, leave it on her pillow as a gift.
I raised my snout to the wind and scented to figure out exactly where the little rat was. I channeled my fine hunting beagle heritage and I a set out to catch a squirrel.
I watched as the thief jumped into the Mama’s strawberry plantation and stole a berry.
He just sat there, like he owned the woofing place, munching away. He was distracted by the lush fruit and the juice running down his gross, little chin. This was my chance. I pounced and just like that: he was in my mouth.
Blech! Why didn’t anyone tell me that those things are furry?
It was like a toy only it tasted worse than it smelled. It tasted like a wet dog smells. Gag me with a spoon! I hate the smell of wet dog. You know what else was totally off putting? It was moving for woof sakes. No one told me it was going to move. Have you ever felt something squirming against your tongue? it’s…awful. It feels so weird and off putting.
I didn’t even realize what happened until the Mama’s laughter rang in my ears.
I was so woofing surprised that I had caught the squirrel, that I spat it back out.
The squirrel was either incredibly stupid or suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder because, for a moment, he just lay there, blinking into the sun. If you hadn’t seen the whole prceding debacle, you might think he was suntanning.
I looked into his beady little eyes, disgusted that I had put that thing in my mouth, and I let out one deep warning bark.
That straightened him out real good. Up and off he went to carry forth the story of the big scary black dog that had almost killed him. To this day, they tell the little squirrel babies not to go into the yard at the end of the lane. Every year on Halloween, brave squirrels dare each other to sneak into our yard, but no squirrel ever does.
I’m like the Freddy Kruger of the squirrel world, y’all.