Wednesday, February 17, 2010

My New Diabolical Plan to Rid the World of Hell Hound

Hello Cyber Friends,

I was just sitting here, thinking. Not to be redundant, but something really has to be done about that dog, Hell Hound. My lady won't chat with me today since she is busy brooding over Milk Man's hard cover book that came in the mail. It's a published dissertation or something. I can read English and I believe it states on page one that he can be a veterinarian in some states. My lady is jealous/proud of him and admits that this feeling is completely evil in nature. (I love that she sometimes feels evil.) She just shared her premonition that Hell Hound is sure to get published next. Come to think of it, this idea depresses me, also. I must rid the world of that hound today!

"Are you having a criss-cross day, my lady?" I shout as she passes me in the dining room.

"No, Norman. Get off my table," she snaps, sliding me until no wood appears beneath me, and I fall to the floor.

"Me-ouch! That was harsh," I mutter, glancing down at today's edition of The New York Post that is spread on the floor beside the table.

That's when I see it: the article I've been praying for.

Savage Beagles Terrorize East End!

The story describes feral Beagles running loose in the suburbs, attacking people trying to enter their homes.
"These floppy-eared terrors are no lovable Snoopys - they're abandoned hunting dogs that live in packs and have gone from humble pets to hounds from hell!"

"Be careful, these animals are trained killers!" I read aloud, unable to contain my excitement. This, my friends, I dare-say, is precisely why I love the ever-informative, intuitive publication, the New York Post.

"Excuse me, Hell Hound. Wake up! Listen here, fat chap! It's urgent. President Obama has risen the terror alert to magenta- the highest Shade of Worry for Hell Hounds!"

The dog raises her head, groggy from a mid-morning nap. She stretches and yowls in a most unbecoming manner.

"Yes, Sergeant, Sir!" she yaps, bouncing and dragging her rear on the rug, because I told her my lady thinks that is endearing! ;)

"You must spend the whole day outside in the yard. There is a pack of PETA haters running rampant in town, and you must protect the family!"

Hell Hound trots out the back door and I push it closed behind her with a swipe of my tail. Then I go to the back window to watch (with glee) the decimation of Hell Hound.

About two hours later I see the pack of crazed dogs approaching the yard. One by one they jump the fence and surround Hell Hound, who whimpers and rolls on her back.

I open the window a crack and shout:

"Good job protecting the turf, Horace Hound!"

My eyes narrow to two mail slots as the pack closes in on her. Then, something quite awful happens.

The largest Beagle yells "STOP!"
"Mama?" yelps Hell Hound.

"Baby Hell Hound! I always knew I'd find you someday. You are a great dog, a descendant, in fact, of Checkers, First Dog of the White House under President Nixon!"

"Really mom? Oh wow! Imagine that. For so long I've been trying to do great things. I wanted so badly to be First dog, but President Obama didn't pick me."

"That, my daughter (whom everyone mistakes for a boy), is because he knows that you come from a long line of Republican dogs. My pack and I have to leave now. Jorge just got a tip on his Blackberry that the dog catcher is two blocks away. Take care, Hell Hound."

As the two beasts sniff noses, I fall off the window ledge, whining.

"WHAAAT! Oh, Sorry day! I can't believe Hell Hound didn't get mauled. I can't believe she is a famous creature descended from Checkers the dog- after all! Another plan, foiled! I'm a failure. Who has ever heard of ME- Norman Whiskers a.k.a Bigotes Grande etc.? I am a cat without a grand accomplishment, a kitty with no legacy to speak of! In the very least, I should be able to outwit a dog!"
Just then, my little governess' big Mary Janes appear in front of my face.

"Well, Mr. Whiskers, many cats have been outsmarted throughout history - there's Tom and Jerry, Garfield and Odie, my mommy and daddy..."
"Stop! Little Governess- Princess! I can't bare this lesson anymore."

"Oh, Mr. Whiskers! Are you having a criss-cross day?" asks the Princess. I sprint away from her with a "Hmph!"

I spend the rest of the morning on my Lady's lap, brooding.
Cheerio :(
Norman Whiskers


Putz said...

i am glad mailman{no that is carl malone} milkman's hard cover book was worth mentioning and not riskae, and your jealous amiganals are tyoical of the arragant kindom they are from...lovetheputz

Putz said...

p.s. my labradoooooor is republican and my neighbors just loves him, but i sadly am a bleeddding heart liberal, and unconvertable to the other side, except it having to do wit abortionand even then i am very suspisioous

Putz said...

oh burma shave{three commments on one post}that missing comment ended up as comment two on your gran hog blag>>>just barely found it so you did not lie, you truthfully did publish me>>>thanks

Mr. Norman Whiskers said...

Hi Mr. Putz! Sadly, I'm neutered, but I am quite certain that there is nothing "hot" about Teacher Implementation of Middle-Level Program Components, Their Attitude Toward No Child Left Behind and Instructional Practice Related to Test Preparation in High, Moderated and Low Need Middle Schools by John J. Christie a.k.a. Milk Man.

Dear Internet Traveler,

Welcome to my writer's blog, started about six years ago for fun. Over time, the writing I have posted has ranged from personal reflection, to Long Island history research, to tall tales for my own amusement, to feature articles for local newspapers. As you can see from topics listed here, I travel in many mental directions in regard to interests. Click on the tabs and labels to explore my strange mind which senses that you may be having a criss-cross day. If so, perhaps this blog will distract you. However, please note that if you tell me my blog is beautiful just to get me to advertise rhinoplasty surgery and cheap drugs from Canada in your comment, I will ask the gods to give you a tail that cannot be concealed.


Loren Christie

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