Over at My Brown Newfies, they’re barking about how it’s never the dog’s fault.
Even the Daddy knew it. As soon as he saw that I had sampled all that icing had to offer he looked at Mama and said, “It’s not his fault.” I can’t help but think he must have felt a little smug about the situation. After all, it’s usually his fault and he learned the “don’t leave food out” lesson the hard way.
Back when the Felix had first moved in with the Mama and Daddy, they weren’t really “dog people” yet.
Sure they were in love with his fluffy little butt, but they weren’t really prepared for everything that comes along with having a dog. Imagine the same Mama and Daddy we’ve got now, only thinner, with better hair and even less competent (if you can imagine that. I know, it sounds like a fairytale).
the Mama used to rush home from work so she could play with her new dog.
The Felix hated being alone and the Mama had it on good authority that he wailed his furry little butt off from about the Daddy closed the door behind him in the afternoon until the Mama got home a few hours later. She hated that he was so upset, but hadn’t even figured out that separation anxiety was athing yet. (stoopid Mama.) She gets home and the downstairs neighbour tells Mama Felix was really good that day. Not a peep put of him all afternoon. Well, I tell you, sweet, simple Mama was pleased as punch. He’s was cured! It was a miracle! (The Mama was filled with delusions of grandeur and ridiculous, hopeless optimism back then).
Mama walks in the door and she’s greeted with this:
It broke her heart to look at that sweet boy, so terrified for only doing what any dog would have done. He looked so sweet and scared standing there with his peanut butter snout that Mama scooped him up, hugged him tight and kissed his peanut butter-y nose until he quit shaking, telling him the whole time that it was not his fault.
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