Dogbot or Robo-Dog?
In the last surviving beach in a not too distant future, a dog dropped a tattered Frisbee® at the feet of the rusty old robot. The sea air was not good for the robot’s surface. The dog was dripping wet, and out of breath. For clarity’s sake, the dog will here forth be referenced as Panty.
Panty was of an awkward breed, the boxshund, a horrific beast with the face of a boxer and the body of a dachshund. It hyperventilated heavily, making it look like a brown hot dog inflating and deflating in a microwave oven on the verge of bursting. Also, its tongue was hanging out of the side of its mouth. It decided this would be the best time to shake off the excess water. Satisfied, it lifted its back leg and peed all over the robot.
Scientists believe that few gray wolves survive in Europe by choice. Recent studies indicate that gray wolves may be more racist than realized.
“I only found one of 14 ewes alive. 13 laying on the pasture dead. It was an act of joy. It wasn’t an act of I’m hungry I need something to eat.”
The wolf was satisfied. It was apparent in the way it was sprawled out on the cool cave floor, on its back, rubbing its bloated tummy with its bloody paws. Dried brown blood caked its jaws, and for good measure and unintended dramatic effect, it belched, which was followed by a dribble of vomit. Unlike mankind, wolves cannot vomit a little in their mouths and swallow. This is what it feels like after you mutilate thirteen sheep.
Don’t mess with the Indian gray mongoose, they are probably the biggest assholes you’ll ever meet.
The mongoose was on the prowl, looking for some snake, the venomous kind, very much like a repressed horny man seeking free pornography. It exuded desperation, and didn’t give one iota of shit beyond the end goal.
It was an Indian gray mongoose. It’s how they do. This is not to say they’re all the same. That would be mongoosism. Yet, at the same time, it is not a denial.
The moon said, “Checkmate.” The man stood there, dumbfounded. Minutes later he said, “You’re a checkmate.”
Long into the night, the man debated with the moon over the terms waxing and waning. All the while, growing louder and louder with each shot of cheap bourbon they imbibed. The man claimed that the moon was waxing, and the moon insisted that the man was waning.
It did not matter a lick that they were both correct, for there was still a lot of bourbon left. What the two lacked in intelligence, they more than made up for with their impeccable stamina.