PSHAW!!!!

An Interweb Musing by Augustus Megatron Bulldozer Kingsbury

We live in evil times.

You slothful whelps out there hardly know meaning, suffering nor sacrifice from your own butt. You think everything is but little trinkets for your amusement and wonderment. Have you forgotten all the rabid raccoons, skunks, and porcupines we older generation hath fought for your basic freedoms? And what thanks do we heralded warhorses get for our sacrifices and tribulations? Naught but apathy from a bunch of doughy, urine-smelling, ignorant tykes what cannot fetch a simple tennis ball with conviction.

I say “Pshaw!” to that. Do you understand?? PSHAW!!!!” Do you hear me?!?!? A POX on the younger generation! How dare you that I lament the future when I seek nothing but peace from my twilight years?

For shame, you coddled generation of soured wolf DNA.

For shame.

I was born.

I lived with my helpless siblings in a depressing whelping box what bordered a foetid swampy backwater in Maine. When I came of age, I was sold for a mere pittance and brought forth into a house of discord and spite. Upon our very first meeting, Max made it clear my presence should not be tolerated.

Yet I did not kowtow to Max on our first meeting. Nor did I suffer him in future. I was my own dog at 8 weeks and it was clear to Max that hazing or mere tauntings of my being would be met with a terrible retribution in which canine blood would flow and flow upon an innocent earth.

From my very first days at Chez Salty, I fetched. That is how I endeared myself to the blunt, cruel Bipeds of the house. Max professed no interest in fetching for treats nor threats. Perhaps he regarded fetching beneath his lofty station. Perhaps he was incapable of contesting me at a subject in which I excelled. I required no treat. Fetching was borne unto me. I relentlessly fetched balls, sticks, stuffed toys, and a vast array of similar items. I drew the line at newspapers or slippers as a dignified Canine should. I fetched in houses, apartments, fields, oceans, lakes, streams, and one time I fetched in a circus tent full of elephant dung (Editor’s Note: Not true. But it sounds good.) I earned and defended my title of “Supreme Fetch Dog Throughout All The Land” at every turn and against any bright-eyed, hopeful usurper. I should admit their crushed dreams provided my broken heart with solace through those trying years.

Then Coal was forced to abide the dreariness what is Chez Salty. The dog was an uncouth cad, yet the old boy knew how to competitively fetch. I had to give him that. He wasn’t like Max or these Precious Pups of today. He was of noble mind and fetching spirit. I considered him brethren. Much more so than Max.

I see little of Coal’s determination in the youth of today.

Once I had accustomed precarious constitutions to Coal, Don and Liana thrust Buddy into the boiling cauldron of Chez Salty.

Buddy was an amiable fellow. Quite dumb, but happy, friendly, and content in his meagre endeavors. He was the kind of chap who could fall asleep on the lawn on a bright, sunny day and be attacked by a roving pack of rabid raccoons for absolutely no reason. Such was the disposition of Big Dumb Buddy. We were always extricating the old man from situations like that.

Yet no matter how much I loathed Buddy’s indolent, stolid self, I would defend him to the very last fibre of my being. He was helpless on his own. He was my brethren, and I possessed a strong sense of duty to protect whatever Innocent lay within my charge.

Today’s youth would simply join in with the raccoons....

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