Being me requires a lot of pampering. Each week, I have my spa treatment. First, I get a luxurious bath. The bather massages using the best rose soap. After that, they start to dry my fine, silky coat. Then they use the metal thingy that shoots out nice warm air. Next they move to my nails. They hold my paw out and clip each nail with the delicacy of a Venician gondolier. After they clip my nails, they buff the sharp edges off. They even rub my little paws too. I loved going to that place every week, until the other day.
First off, my usual bather was not there, and so I got stuck with the new person. She was an older woman with rough hands and a large frame. The Good Lord didn’t bless her with good looks or a fully functional brain. She picked me up and basicaly threw me in the tub. The nerve of her! She turned on the water and it was lukewarm! Lukewarm! Can you believe it?
Then she poured too much soap on me. I looked like a small sheep with all those bubbles on me. She didn’t even massage the soap into my award-winning pelt. Instead she used some bristle brush on me. It hurt like the dickens. Then she dumped cold water on me to get the bubbley soap off. Then when she got to drying me off, she used cold air! She really loved using cold air, like she took pleasure in my malnuritment. After I was dried off, It was time for my nails. She chopped off my nails like a sexually-unidentifiable flannel-clad lumber Jill hacks away at a redwood. She barely even buffed them. And of course she neglected to rub my paws. Usually, I feel so much better afterward, but I felt like ghetto trash. Heck, brain-eating Sylar could have done a better job.
Speaking of Sylar. I got to meet him! I was expecting him to dress to the nines, but he wore some ugly brown outfit. I didn’t even realize it was him at first. I thought it was some retarded, paper-making hick that worked for dad.
He came in my house claiming that I had been wandering around outside. Sure, I was by the door, but I wouldn’t dare to walk outside after that so-called “spa treatment”. I felt like White Trash, but not the kind with a double wide, I’m talking “throw the fancy silverware at your brother (who’s also your uncle) cuz he’s being an idiot and licking the couch again” kind of White Trash.
Sylar walked talking to mommy. Then he came over and picked me up and I’m thinking Heck no your inbreed! Hey, hick, here’s some advice: Lose the boots and try having an IQ for a week.
But when he pet me his hand were so soft and smelled so good!
Once he sat me down I heard him talk to Mommy. He said his name was Sylar and I was thinking, Hey, I know him! Then all of a sudden, he started to yell at Mommy and turned into a quite unpleasant guest.
I ran upstairs and hid under Claire’s bed before things really got bad. You see, Mommy’s not the sharpest block of cheese in the fridge. Let’s hope she never faces off with two jars of mayonaise. Not only would she be outnumbered, but she’d be outwitted as well.