My friends. It’s been some time since my last penning. Thank you to you kind souls who thought I was afflicted with some fatal canine circumstance and subsequently threw mutterings and mummerings at the cosmos on my behest. The truth be known (a common human expression), I have been on Bostie Sabbitical. You academics out there know what what a German Shepard act is required to submit the cavalcade of forms, secure actual copies of ones legal papers and present a worthy case for my disappearance into the semi legitimate world of thought called Sabbitcal. Yet, to my surprise and delight, my proposal was approved! Let’s hear it: ARF, ARF and big BOW WOWS.!
Now that I have been officially relieved for one year of all former mundane responsibilities such as taking care of Annie and Clark, I have thrust myself into thinking the larger thoughts for which we Bosties have the necessary DNA. To date, I have nothing to report. Daily, I read the papers, watch diverse movies on dogflix, occasionally attend a dog-town meeting and burn a little incense that Annie purchased in New Mexico. Nothing, Nada, zip (I learned that word from a Schnozer), no scorching electrical activity has arrived in this Bostie brain. Nevertheless, I am committed to sticking with healthy routines. I roust myself each morning and check out the new smells at this Ranch, work my old trap line, and yelp when someone new pulls into the yard but it’s the same “hey pooch, how’s it goin”? This is not what a learned experience like a sabbatical is intended to produce. I was in search of higher ground free of the scent of others like me. If this awkward trend persists when I am required to report to my committee at conclusion of my sabbatical, my fear is the members will begin to think of me as a lesser, or worse..reconsider my pedigree.
Goodness and apologies. I’ve just read my penning and I’m not altogether happy with it. Thinking about serious matters can cause fur reduction in a Bostie and it’s leaching from me as I write and this is not a good thing. Yet, like the humans with whom I share space, I get up each new morning scratch myself, crunch on a little Bostie chow, and wonder how I can be a little better Bostie. Be assured, my daytime naps run amok with dreams of desert, rogue lizards, salsa, mariachi rthrumns, and lapping up some of that strange tonic pitched from Clark’s glass when he goes to bed. It always makes me dream of olives. It’s all just around the bend.