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Tags? We don't need no stinking tags.


I realize that there just aren't enough hours in the day for Woody and me to sniff the butt of every living thing, or for every living thing to reciprocate. So you shouldn't be surprised when a well-meaning gesture towards one or both of us doesn't elicit the expected response. You just don't know us that well.

For lack of a better word, we're more or less "free-range" dogs. We run when we want but most of the time we sleep in holes we dig in the yard just by farting. We don't wear bandanas, we avoid leashes, no one picks up our poop, we eat dead things we find laying around, and most importantly, we don't play games.

If you're visiting our place and throw a stick, it'll stay where it lands unless you go get it yourself. And if you're thinking of using that frisbee for anything other than an improvised food bowl, fuggidaboudit. And the last person that tried to play tug with Woody ended up on his butt 'cause Woody just let go. It's our way. My dad used to say he was "half aussie and half cantankerous" which makes me at least 1/4 cantankerous. (That's 7/4 cantankerous in dog fractions.) Woody doesn't remember his dad, but nature or nurture, he's with the program.

This is all preamble to noting that a couple dogs named Anna and Mr. Meaty, the "adventure dogs," have taken the liberty of trying to get us involved in a game called "tag." Now these are righteous dogs that go on adventures like cliff-diving in Mexico and butt-freezing in Canada. So we couldn't just offer our standard response which translates roughly to "you can take your friggin' game and stick it up the butt of that person who's holding the other end of your leash." (To which most dogs usually reply, "sweet!")

Anyway, here's the game. We're supposed to list five weird things about ourselves or our pets. Then tag five friends and make them do the same thing. Argh. Do you feel my pain?

So pay attention. Here's how this is going to play out. For starters, we're dogs. We don't have any pets. But in deference to A and Mr. M we will list five weird things about ourselves. But after that, we're through. Mr. Meaty notes that we're the only dogs online that haven't been tagged. So enough is enough. We're not going to tag anybody, thank you very much. The game stops here. We've got a reputation to protect. If we start tagging folks, they'll start expecting us to play well with other dogs and stop barking in the middle of the night. From there it's only a small step to poodle cuts and doggy boots. The horror.

  1. Woody - eye'm a sum of a bitch. it's true. eye really yam.
  2. Chigger - I love little kids. So go ahead an arrest me.
  3. Woody - eye kin lick my butt and scratch behind my years at the same thyme.
  4. Chigger - I hate canned dog food, but I eat it anyway just so Woody doesn't get it.
  5. Woody - eye half had sects 327 thymes with stump's leg.

Now I've got to go barf. (No, it doesn't have anything to do with the game. I always barf around this time of day. Really. I do.)


Anybody that would like a list of an extra 1,000 weird things about those Woody and Chigger can email me in cat paradise. I have very little to do but remember what it was like living with them before I was mercifully removed from earthly life. BTW, can anybody explain how a cat can die of LUNG CANCER?

Sometime you'll have to tell me about this sects stuff Woody, I've never been able to figure out how it works.

Gilda, I think we all knew what your problems was:


mr. meaty, the sects thing is easy. ewe jest need to reed the manual. I quote:

"ewe put yer write foot in, ewe put yer write foot out.

ewe put yer write foot in, and ewe shake it all about.

ewe dew the hokey-pokey as ewe turn yourself around.

that's what it's awl about"

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