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Have you ever lived at a zoo? Well, if you have ever been to my
house, you know what I am talking about. Ever since I was a little boy
I have loved dogs; my sisters were both cat people. So as you can
imagine, it was like living on a ranch in the middle of the suburbs.
My first dog was a Scottish Terrier named Laddie. He was such a
great little guy, or at least he thought he was. Every day I would come
home from school to find he had destroyed one more possession of mine.
First, it was the ninja turtle, then the stuffed panda bear I had
practically had my whole life. A new meaning was given to, “I don’t
have my homework Miss; my dog ate it.” She never believed me until it
was time to turn in report cards, and mine was a slobber coated piece
of a chew toy. ( I think she got the point.)
The next dog that I owned was the complete opposite of man’s best
friend. I wanted him because he was part coyote and part German
Shepherd. He was by far the biggest and meanest looking dog on the
block. There was only one problem: talk about a wuss. He ran from
everything (even the neighbor Dachshund.) He would only come to women.
He might have been flamboyant, but he later proved that he was not gay,
when we found him stuck to the lab down the street.
Then there was Babies, my first pound puppy. She was the cutest
little thing until summer came about. Talk about a shedder. If I was
not brushing her, I was selling her hair to wig companies. That dog
could reproduce hair faster than I could remove it! I was forced to
make her an outside dog. I believe she resented it, because any chance
she got she would pee on the door to my room.
My current best friend is also a Scottie, his name is Dr. Peepers.
His head is half the size of his body, and his legs extend an amazing
three inches. He owns my heart and he knows it. But when I come home
from school he begins to act up. Anything to get my attention, he will
do. I have come to the conclusion that he thinks he is a human. When I
wake up in the morning he follows me into the bathroom and chews on his
toothbrush while I brush my teeth. When there is a conversation going
on, or when he wants something he growls and howls at me. It is his
form of communication. He just does not realize that I am not a doctor,
and my last name is not Dolittle.
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