The unicorn meat eating orphans have taken to running up and down my face all night to punish me for not letting them outside. It's a bit like those Japanese women who run up and down one's back, only it's not. Minkins, the boy, is become philosophical about the whole thing...Echo, the girl, tries to claw through the glass and howls...usually starting about 10 o'clock at night. That is, as soon as I lay down and she is sure she has an audience.
Max, the new corgi, thinks the whole thing is just too interesting and starts barking or chasing them around the bed. Just to keep it fun. I need to modify Eddie's service animal vest to fit Max. He is just as broad as Ed was, but from muscle, not tubbiness. And he's about 3 feet shorter than Eddie. You'll know him when you see him at Mill Mountain Coffee.
Queen Elizabeth collects corgis. I suppose after the brouhaha about Charles' nuptials, a pack of small yappy dogs seems a relief. They have a medium throated bark, not Chihuahua, not Newfoundland and I guess they drown out anything she doesn't really want to hear. Kind of a royal face saver, "Your Majesty, the economy is in the tank." "Yes, order one in fuchsia as well; the one with the brim." Not that the Queen doesn't care about the economy, but she is darn certain not going to give any of those castles back to the Scottish and they already turn their bedsheets to save the washing of them. What more can one ask?
And I'll tell you the truth, dear Reader, now that I have been recognized by other artists as an artist, outside of Hollins, writing this blog is scary. I think I was so much more funny before I gave a damn and was writing for that dude in Slovakia.