Apparently Willoughby isn't the only little hairy varmint critter around here with primordial urges. Mac has him beat a mile.

Patty woke me up this morning about three complaining about Maccabee. "Get this thing off me. He's got me pinned where I can't move, and he's drooling on me."

She flipped the covers back, and there was our resident mutt between her legs, with his chin resting on her crotch, a look of puppy bliss on his face.

"Mac," I scolded him, "get out of there." Patty pushed on him, but he just went limp and lay there, drooling. I reached to pick him up.

"Grrrrrrrr!"

"Mac! Move!"

"Grrrrrrrr!" Snap!

I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and the loose skin on his butt and gave him the bum's rush. Dumb mutt.

Then I looked where he had been lying and reached out to caress the spot. Patty bared her teeth and said, "Grrrrrrrr!" So I grudgingly lay back down and went to sleep.

Ain't that the pits?

Copyright © David Yehudah
November 29, 1999