The tenth and final day of the Dog days of Summer writing challenge is finally upon us. I had originally intended to write about my own dog Lucy, but I had this one about Charles Dickens’ dog-character Jip already done – so I’m going with it. For those of you who’ve already had enough dogs with British accents, I apologize, but it’s kind of tough to write about a Dickens character without one.
I found meself at the Thorn and Thistle Tuesday last. Sniffin’ around in the sawdust for scraps, I was. Suddenly, the chimney sweep and the cobbler start into fightin’. They spilled nearly two pints of special bitters on the floor. I’d had a few drops in the past, but this was a pond of ale layin’ before me. I did me best to lap it up without gettin’ stepped on by those pugilists.
Now that malty elixir is all I can think about. I’ve no interest in cat turds nor humpin’ legs. Find me a pub with a wobbly table and I’ll spend the rest of me days beneath it.
I’m not the only one who’s writing these little masterpieces, check out these other bloggers and their unique takes on canines:
Day 9 of the “My Dog Has Fleas” marathon is finally here. That can only mean one thing: it’s time for Odie, Garfield’s annoyingly upbeat buddy. Unlike so many of the other subject dogs, I actually knew who Odie was…or I thought I did.
It’s all about the cat, am I right? I’m just the optimistic boob who mugs for the camera; The Costello to his Abbott.
Cameras don’t stay on forever. Lights go out and everyone goes home. I’ll enjoy the yard then. When no one’s looking, I’ll roll in that dead possum like Donald Trump in a bed of hundreds. They’ll curse while they rid me of the delicious aroma.
I’ll get to the set early tomorrow. First break in the action, I’m sneaking over to the litter box in Garfield’s dressing room for a tasty nugget or two. In the next scene, I’ll take extra pleasure in licking his million dollar face.
The following bloggers are also participating, and deserve your a pat on their heads and maybe a good belly scratch:
Day six of the dog days is upon us. I don’t know about you guys, but I’m getting tired of biting my own ass and scratching for fleas. Today is dedicated to Snoopy. For you younger readers, he’s a cartoon beagle who is featured in Charlie Brown comics. Comics are like cartoons, but they’re motionless drawings and do not usually involve scores of people drawing cells in sweatshops in third world countries.
I hung around those dopey kids. Every chance I got, I’d steal the show. The crowds couldn’t get enough of me.
Lucy and Peppermint Patty were sharing a dressing room, while I had a suite with bowls of M & M’s with all the brown ones picked out. That was my message to Charlie – letting him know where he stood. Chocolate disagrees with me, but I demanded those bowls anyway.
Then one day, Schultzy drops a freakin’ bird into the strip. I didn’t think anything of it. Over night, he’s getting his own dorm posters and endorsement deals. Just like that, I’m second fiddle and bunking with Linus. Freaking Linus!!
That’s it – 110 words! I’m sure you’re clamoring for more. So here are the other Dog Days bloggers, who are slaving away at creating their crunchy nuggets that makes its own savory gravy.
It’s day five of this never-ending bloggy dog-themed death march. I know you’re tired of reading them, but it’s half done, so buck up. Skippy! Today’s pooch is Frasier’s father’s dog, Eddie.
Here’s a little something to think about: There’s a guy. A regular working stiff, a cop actually. Somehow he has two brainiac intellectual snobs for sons, maybe because he gave them snooty, Ivy League names. He named one “Frasier” and the other one “Niles”. Niles?! Fer Chrissakes! You named a kid Niles?! How did you expect he’d turn out?
Makes me wonder who it really was who shot you in your ass, old timer.
The years proved maybe it’s possible to teach an old dog new tricks.
He got himself a hot British physical therapist and an adorable Jack Russell terrier. He had the good sense to name the dog “Eddie”.
At least I’m not the only knucklehead doing this. Having the rest of these folks along for the ride makes me feel a little less self conscious:
It’s day 4 of Blogdramedy’s Dog Days of Summer writing challenge. Today’s bow wow spotlight is on none other than Fluffy, the three-headed dog featured in Harry Potter. A couple of disclaimers before we begin; I have this all written and ready to publish on day 3, and I’m hopeful there will be internet access on the rustic portion of the Oregon coast where I’ll be at this time tomorrow. Also, I freely admit that I have never read any of the Harry Potter books, though at least a couple of my children are fanatical about all things Potter. I did a 30 second Google search and started typing. A three-headed dog in a British setting? It’s only 110 words, how badly can I screw this up?
So you know, I’m the only one of the ‘eads who can speak the Queen’s English. The two ‘eads to me left lack vocabularies beyond your standard growlin’ and snarlin’.
We each got our abilities, we ‘ave. Clive on the far left is really the best suited for licking our arse. It’s just as well, I’ve never developed a taste fer it meself. Teddy, in the middle, he excels at catching flies. Not much of a skill, that, but he’s right proud of himself when he gets one. Clive and me humor ‘im and make a big deal out of it.
Well, here we are on day three already of this Dog Days of Summer grindstone. Sick of dogs yet? Well, tough chew toys, because we’ve got another one coming your way right now. Goes by the name of Lassie. Enjoy it or keep off the furniture.
“Timmy fell down a well” – Really? That crap again?
I’ve been working with a therapist for some time now. Spent a ton of money I really couldn’t afford. Don’t go thinking they let dogs in the Screen Actors Guild back in the golden age of television – ’cause they didn’t.
Anyway my therapist says I’m what you call an “enabler”. She says that me saving Timmy all those times just enabled him to keep living life like a reckless jerk-off; getting lost in the woods, kidnapped by escaped convicts or trapped in an abusive relationship with a gay biker named Otis.
I’m dealing with my own issues. Timmy is Otis’ problem now.
I’m not the only one writing about dogs, these folks are working hard at it too. Don’t get emotional, it’s not like they’re pulling a sled across the Alaskan wilderness and sleeping out in the snow. Click on them and see if I’m lying – my guess is that they’re probably up on the sofa again.
1 Point Perspective – You just read my version of Lassie, but why not click here and look at something else – my attempt at scoring a lucrative book deal by writing porn in my own version of 50 Shades.
This is day two of Blogdramedy’s BlogShorts, a short-story writing challenge. It spans ten days, includes ten short stories, each a mere 110 words. This year’s theme: The Dog Days of Summer. The hound-du-jour is Toto from the Wizard of Oz.
Those little people creeped me out – big time.
Every chance they got, they were picking me up with their stubby little hands, petting me and tugging on my ears. I was trying to focus on my lines and motivation for a supporting role in what was going to be a classic film, and these weird little gnomes kept touching me.
I finally reached my limit and nipped at one of them. The cretin dropped me like a bad habit. Luckily it was a short trip to the ground and I was uninjured. I caught a glimpse of my understudy, a Dachshund named Angus, licking his chops, hoping for his big break.
The following blogs have also pledged to participate – hopefully none of them have injured themselves by falling off the couch while trying to lick their own private parts.
This is day one of Blogdramedy’s BlogShorts, a short-story writing challenge. It spans ten days, includes ten short stories, each a mere 110 words. This year’s theme: The Dog Days of Summer. Today’s subject is none other than Stephen King’s loveable scamp, Cujo.
Books don’t tell the whole story.
Lotta people thought it was a bite from a rabid raccoon, maybe a fox. I’ll be honest, it wasn’t rabies. Rabies is just a cop out, like PMS for the ladies, know what I mean?
It seems trivial looking back, but at the time, it was maddening. The collar wasn’t too bad, fit okay, but the license! That shitty little piece of tin hung there, jingling against the ring on the collar if I so much as blinked my eye. I couldn’t cut a fart without that fucker making a sound.
One day, I heard that sound one time too many and I snapped.
The following blogs have also vowed to participate. Time will tell if they actually run with the big dogs, or stay on their porches.