Days of My Life

What a bummer. Little doggie’s aren’t supposed to be depressed. I don’t know if it was that, exhaustion, or maybe as Papa said, an allergy.

My girl Cinnamon was here for a few days again. It was great. We ran and ran and played as if there would be no tomorrow. The last day she collapsed upstairs and I fell asleep on Mama and Papa’s bed. I could not lift a paw. That was Monday evening.

Yesterday, I didn’t eat and I drank very little. Papa even tried to get me to lick water from his finger. Not me. I’m stubborn that way.

Today was better. Mama made fillet mignon for Papa and me. She feed me in her lap little pieces of it. It was so juicy, tender, and medium rare; just how I like it. I had a continuous tingle running to my toes. (I wonder what that was.) The meat was so good, that cow must have never run a day in her life. Maybe they fed her beer too.

I wanted to write some things this morning, but Papa was so busy, I couldn’t get him to type this for me. He’s getting ready to go to L.A., wherever that is? I guess they don’t allow dogs there, because I never get to go.

Papa only agreed to write this little bit, because I promised not to bite his toes for the rest of the day.

Later,

Woodie


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