awl write awl write awl write. its awl my fault. ewe happy now, chigger? sew cut me sum slacks. the bottom lime is that dog island sucks. big thyme. ewe jest think it was "really really really good" because yor a cute bitch end every friggin' alpha-male-wannabee on the island was literally kissing year but.

meanwhile, eye'm getting my but kicked about every too seconds, and that's dog seconds. their quicker then people seconds. eye want a drink of water end eye've got to fight three dogs. eye want two eat end a hole gang of mongrels come up end tell me two get two the back of the line. end eye don't even want two talk about what happened when eye went up end said hello two that cute little poodle.

sew eye pea'd in bluto's dog food bowl. sue me. he deserved it. then they voted us off the island. ore sew they said. butt what with dog island being off the coast of florida, eye'd take those election results with a grain of salt.

sew phooey on dog island, end ewe kin take down those yellow ribbons, cause weird back!

end four those of ewe who think this blog has been boring four the passed few months, check this one out.

Okay, I have to admit I didn't expect to ever be posting here again. Not in a million dog years.

If you didn't figure it out, a couple of months ago Woody and I packed up our bag of bones and moved to Dog Island. And let me tell you, we’re not like those fools on Star Trek who, every time they come across some utopian society, become immediately suspicious and initiate some kind of regime change. I guess that’s a human thing: if life is really really really good, then you’re morally obligated to muck it up.

But not this dog. Dog Island was, indeed, really really really good. After the first week I threw away my tags and vowed I’d never ever sit-on-command again. It was like I was a queen. I can honestly say that I didn't miss a single thing about my old life, with the exception of warm cat turds. But when they're not trying to pass off meat byproducts and rotten vegetables as dog food, I can live with that.

But nirvana was not to be my fate. Why, you ask? Why? WHY? Let me tell you why. @&#%# WOODY GOT US VOTED OFF THE ISLAND.

Now excuse me while I go bang my head against a rock.

Sigh...

ewe ewe ewe like us! ewe really really like us! weave just bean honored buy sara lain of techtv.com as her "animal fever blog no. 1". weir sew surprised wee dew knot even half any prepared comments. however, qui our knot at a lost four words.

four starters, eye wood just say that weir honored two even bee considered inn the same category as jeffrey and bindie and bacchus, the whining wonder from down under.

butt now that eye have yor attention, eye'd like two take a moment (in dog years) two thank my mother end my father (whoever he was — and if yor out their reading this dad, don't ewe dare show up expecting me to share sum of my purinas now), all my brothers and sisters end neutered siblings (wear ever ewe our); stump and tweet, the humids who keep the floor clean and the bowl full; gilda end guillermo, the to cats who our always dumb enough two walk away from there bowls before their dun eating; buster, the quiet assassin; tucker, the over-caffeinated professor; end of coarse eye have two thank spot and barney, the white house dogs, because, as every dog nose, ewe half two kiss butt two get ahead.

eye'd also like two thank meankitty.com, wear eye go four inspiration and spiritual renewal; the global squirrel network where eye track international conspiracy and terrorism, and sonya the pet side kick four fooling most of the people most of the thyme; and shatya, whose breath is sew bad it cuts me sum slack.

and while eye no that the academy doesn't want me two get off on a political rant hear, eye have two chastise all those low-rent opportunistic humans out their who cynically use dogs as capitalist tools. dog yoga? say what? dog yoga? give me a frigging break. no, knot a break. give me a rack of barbecue baby-back ribs. just don't even think that eye want ore knead dog yoga.

weir dogs, dammit. we don't dew yoga, we don't ware clothes, we don't care if hour food is organic ore three-week-old genetically modified road kill. and specially formulated bottled water? our ewe kidding me? ever herd of a puddle?

we don't knead jewel-studded collars, we hate all toothpastes know matter what the flavor, a stick is as good as molded plastic throe toy, and awl wee care about when it comes to bowls is what's inside them.

sew police go ahead and fetishize us if ewe must, but don't four a second pretend that it has anything two dew with hour lifes. yor praying on each others foolishness, and wee want nothing two due with it.

now, wear was eye? oh yes. eye'd also like two thank awl those wonderful humans who work in those buildings wear ewe drive up to a window and they hand you a bag full of greasy food. their just two cool four words. and eye want to thank awl hour loyal readers, and bentley end geoffrey the twisted brits, and fillmore and betty, end merl... oops. hear comes the big brown delivery truck. gotta run. and bark.

snarg, snarg, snaaaaarg... dam bug up my nose... oops, pardon me... anyway... eye eye eye realize that their our a lot of blogs out their, butt eye half two confess that eye dew knot reed very many of them. my mane complaint is that most blogs our buy people, and knot very mini our buy dogs. face it. people our boaring with lousy priorities. they'd rather talk about politics then deer ticks, about girls then squirrels, about corporate malfeasance rather then possum guts. and if eye, four a moment, thought sum won else's sex life was the least bit interesting, eye'd bee putting up daily posts about gilda's pathetic fantasies.

butt... and this is a big butt, people blogs often half sum thing that eye dough knot half. and that's a "wish list." that's wear a blogger has a list on amazon.com of stuff ewe can by them inn order to simulate the task/reward ritual. ore sum thymes it's about lechery. sort of a virtual come-on four blog readers in heat. (end they complain about leg-humping. two each his own, eye say.)

sew, and at any rate, in order two stay current, get sum free stuff, end facilitate yor fantasies, eye halve established my own wish list. jest by me anything ewe see on this list end eye will imagine myself dewing whatever it is ewe want me two imagine myself dewing two ewe. how cool is that? huh?

spam spam spam spam spam spam. eye love spam. at least when eye can get it out of the can. it's just unsolicited email eye can't stand. eye mean who does their marketing research? eye'm a dog ewe fool. eye don't kneed a bigger wangus, and eye certainly don't want bigger booberinos and eye'm knot stupid enough two think that some dog stranger in nigeria really wants too send me a hundred million dog biscuits four safekeeping. and looking at animals getting, well, intimate, with naked humans is, well, there's just know accounting four what sum dogs will dew four a cookie. eye guess ewe really half two wonder if humans are really dumb enough two by something from someone who gives them a fake return address. must bee. unless their are humans dumb enough two keep sending stuff out with fake addresses even though know won bys anything. butt awl this is beside the point, which is, inn spite of everything else, the fact that eye'm a total sucker four kinky squirrel porno spam. arf arf arf. ewe no why? because it's really hard for a squirrel two run fast in high heels. har har har.

I know. Long time. No post. So what. For my part, I was thinking that it was Woody's turn to post, but he's been preoccupied lately. For starters he got this massive writer's block trying to tell the story of how we saved the wild chicken that was running around lost in the woods. But it was a story of dubious merit with no happy ending. And I personally wasn't pleased with the way I was portrayed.

Then to make matters worse, Woody's best friend Fillmore was found dead under mysterious circumstances. The two were odd-couple close and the loss put Woody off his food for a good 15-20 minutes. (That's in dog years, so it's a lot longer than you think it is. At least for Woody.)

Then there was the whole unprecedented-natural-disaster-ice-storm-thing where Stump and Tweet left us alone to cope for seven freaking days (albeit again in dog years) with no water and no heat and no dog treats and trees are crashing all over the place and our walking paths are trashed and the ice builds up between your toes when you go walking around and forms teeny snowballs because it freezes to the hairs on your feet and makes walking out to take a pee painful which of course is a real thrill for us bitches who are stuck just sticking our butts on the ice and whizzing. Just the fact alone that I didn't crap in the house is gonna cost Stump and Tweet big time, and when you throw in all the rest of that nightmare, they're gonna be MY bitches for more than a little while. And I mean that in human years.

Then to top it off, we had to make our annual Blog Dogs holiday quicktime movie for friends and family. (It's such a pain dealing with those Hollywood types). So you can see we've been busy. Of course if you really needed a blog fix you could have visited Barney, the "other" White House Dog, who was supposedly giving tours of the White House using a Barney Cam strapped to his back. Cute, but it's no West Wing. And like everything else coming out of Washington, DC these days, you have to ask yourself what's REALLY going on. In this case, just how does Barney end up pictured in videos being shot with a camera that is supposedly attached to his back? Something's not right here and I think a Congressional investigation is in order. And if "serious" journalists won't keep this abuse of the American trust in the public eye until it's resolved, then it's up to us bloggers. Has Barney been cloned? And has this got anything to do with increased homeland security? And what's a scotch terriorist doing in the White House anyway? And does that mean Scotland is now part of the axis of evil? And is "axis of evil" really "live fo sixa" spelled backwards? And if so, what does that mean? (Drudge has got nothin' on this blogger.)

Whew. Sometimes this politics stuff gets me so worked up I catch myself thinking about it. But after a quick reality check, I'm back. Since I mentioned the ducks, I thought I should probably offer up a formal introduction to the extended pack, as it were. Of course there's Woody and myself. And you might be familiar with Gilda by now. She's one of two cats we tolerate, the other being Guillermo. Gilda's been around forever and must be 150-200 years old. Guillermo is at least a thousand. He's black and deals in the dark arts. A smart dog doesn't mess with Guillermo.

Then there's the three ducks: two white ones, a male and a female we call Barry and Betty White, and a mallard we call Fillmore. (Pre-Buster, there used to be six ducks.) They live in the pond with all the frogs. And finally, there's two people we call Stump and Tweet. They're okay, but if I knew then what I know now I certainly would have enrolled them in obedience school when they where younger.

know know know know know. theirs a rumor going around that eye am somehow a suspect inn the following crime: animal control seeks dog that bit man. the charges are bogus and eye have a rock solid alibi. eye was doing something else. just ask me. and i'm not brown, i'm reddish brown. this is an outrageous case of fur color profiling. anything ewe overheard in a diner was a hoax. eye was just goofing on a waitress who was giving me the suspicious eye. and after awl, it is florida. so consider the source.

pitchers, pitchers, pitchers. eye got pitchers. isle leaf the autobiographicalisms to chigger, because she can right. me, eye due the visual image thing. hear's a sample showing me and chigger suckering some poor human out of a half-dozen dog biscuits. peace of cake. (click on the pitcher for a bunch more.)

People have been contacting us wanting to know more who we are, so I figured I'd better do another autobiographical entry. (See About Us Part I. )

Actually, dogs have been contacting us, too, but they just want to know what our butts smell like. (It would sure save me a lot of time if humans were so practical.) So, here's a scratch-and-sniff for the dogs, and the rest of you will have to keep on reading...

Anyway, as far as breeds go, Woody's a pure-bred Ayarbie (i.e., an Indeterminate Reddish-Brown dog). He had papers when he was really young, but eventually he was expected to poop outside.

As for me, I was baptized an Australian Shepherd, but I left the church after I found out that (a) they cut the tails off Australian Shepherds, and (b) the AKC (aka $#@*!#?%) thinks that white Australian Shepherds are inferior to black and/or brown Australian Shepherds. Pretty arbitrary if you ask me. Hey, at least I'm smart enough to still have a tail, and that's a lot more than you can say for all those Kennel Club Aussies.

I should make it clear that we're grownup dogs. We play hard, we work some, and we sleep a lot. We eat whenever and whatever. We don't do tricks, we don't dress up in silly clothes, and we are definitely not wegmans. (I'm not sure where that term came from, but it's dog slang for dogs that dress up in human clothes and pose for stupid pictures.)

As for where we're located, first you have to sniff out the herd of shetland cattle, then go about a good run time until you come to the black cows. Bark until the cows break for the barn, then go left. (If you smell the markings of a big dog named Bear, you've gone too far, but if you start noticing more deer and turkey droppings, you're headed the right direction.) You cross the creek where the groundhogs live. (Woody has managed to annoy them on more than one occasion, so don't expect them to be friendly.) Keep going and ignore the bag of garbage in the ditch. (It's useless. Whoever threw it out was a vegetarian.) Once you pass the dead possum, be alert for Woody's territory markings. Pretty soon you'll notice a smell that says, "Hi, I'm Woody and I live here. This is my place. It belongs to me. You can visit, but keep your tail between your legs at all times." Then you'll know you're almost there.

Just head left and we'll start barking to welcome you!

Woody's so proud of himself for putting up a semi-coherent post that he's off to tell every squirrel within a half-mile of home. Like they care. Squirrels hate the Internet. Just like they hate pretty much everything except bird feeders.

I guess that leaves it to me to try to say a bit about who we are. Woody and I aren't blood related, but we are pack siblings. I'm the alpha female, and Woody's the alpha male. Which, as anyone knows, means I get my way and Woody gets to do all the chasing and fighting and then has to stand in line for props and dog treats.

Agewise, I'm about seven and Woody's about six. If those numbers are confusing, you can refer to our Age Calculator to translate. What we have in common is that for both of us the last time we saw our birth families was while we were standing in a ditch and they were driving away. It just goes to show you that humans aren't nearly as smart as they think they are sometimes. After all, they should be smart enough to know that if they open the door of the car, put a puppy out on the road, close the door, and then drive away, we can't keep up. Especially when we're puppy-size. I can't imagine how bad they must feel when they realize that won't ever get to see us again just because of some ill-conceived game. But then they are the same species that expects us to kiss them on the lips right after we've been licking our genitals. Whatever.

Luckily, we've been able to locate and train a new family to feed and care for us here in the woods in North Carolina. Unfortunately, they also have cats, but I'm sure we'll have a chance to discuss that in depth at a later time.