Paw note: While The Girl One is busy with a new job (that prevents her from coming on ANY walks, I might add), I’ve decided to take over the blog for awhile, to talk about REAL issues.
It’s not all naps and catching milk bone fly balls, being a dog. You know, they really misrepresent us house canines by making us out to be lazy beggars who do little more than eat socks and stand by the door, all eager eyed, listening for our human’s return.
I saw a video the other day of dogs sitting on cats in order to protect their valuable visual and auditory assets. The Girl One thought it was hilarious. We watched the same clip, but where I saw heroic countrymen, she evidently saw a touring comedy act. Honestly, it was like laughing at soldiers training for battle. Despicable, just … ruff, you know?
But my point is, we’re an intelligent, loyal bunch, and distributing our valiance like so much laugh track fodder is just plain insensitive! When I think of how many bleeding ears resulted from that brief foray into horror … I need a moment.
Alright. Rant done. I didn’t come here today to debate the morality of filming hand to hand combat for click bait. Rather, I want to discuss a topic very near and dear to my heart.
You know what I mean. The smell, the texture, that glorious cold “squish” when you forget where you put it and step on it. It’s like that human 5 second rule, but longer – it doesn’t matter how much hair or how many fruit fly corpses – a rawhide is good til the last big chunk slips down your throat like liquid hotdog.
(An aside: what is the deal with the 5 Second Rule? Don’t get me wrong, I can’t complain since I usually receive the 6 + second bits but … you know what, never mind? Let’s not look a gift human in the mouth.)
So, rawhide. You all know what I’m talking about. One of my favourite parts is dividing up the bone and distributing the pieces. Sometimes The Girl One has the audacity to throw a piece out, and it’s like a Sunday morning off-leash walk when I stumble upon another bit I forgot about. All dogs do go to heaven, and it’s a field of long lost rawhide bits.
But The Boy One finds the sound of my meditative ruminating distasteful, and it sends The Girl One into a fit. She is also far underwhelmed by the delightful smoosh of moist hide between her toes. Honestly, if there were any logic in this world, there would be a different species hierarchy.
So anyway. To avoid activation of their mutual weak stomachs, The Boy One bought me this new thing … and I won’t besmirch the name of Bone by bestowing it on such a farce.
They call it an Antler and – ok, ok. I’ll admit the inside stuff awakens all these latent dreams of tackling stampeding beasts and dining with my pack on bloody carcass…
But the inside runs out, ok? And it’s damn near impossible to hold – there’s only one tiny handle that doesn’t even taste good! Worse still, there’s no portioning options. I spent hours one night while the humans watched TV, gnawing and gnawing. And do you know where I had to show for my mandibular labours? A teeny, tiny dew claw-sized sliver that was immediately confiscated (something about choking and subsequent puking on the carpet). Simply ridiculous.
Without doubt, though, the most disappointing aspect of this interloper is its lack of permeating scent and acceptable level of saliva retention. I mean, the thing doesn’t even soften, much less squish!
So tell me – what’s the point? I mean, at the end of the day, we’re a proud species. And it’s really a matter of quality. Quality handles, sufficient ability to divide the goods, and that satisfying, tintilating SQUISH!
A dog’s gotta have standards, you know?
Tell me what you think, readers! I want to rear about your dietary staples and the piddling substitutes your humans try to paw off on you.
Rise up! To the woof!
Butt sniffs and nuzzles,