My kid got a dog for Christmas — a Pug. His name is Lightning. The dog’s, that is, not the kid’s.
Pugs take the cake for “cute,” judging by the reaction of every woman or girl who sees one.
Oh, he’s so cute! Oh, he’s so precious!
He has a soft, fawn-colored coat, beautiful markings, a curly tail, and that face — he looks like he ran a 40-yard dash in a 30-yard kennel.
You wouldn’t want your kid to look like that, but for a dog, it’s cute.
My wife is in love with the dog. We actually got him a couple of days before Christmas . . . on Christmas Eve, after the boy fell asleep, she went to check on him in his pen. The dog, that is, not the boy.
“Oh, he can’t sleep! You want to help me wrap Christmas presents, Lightning?”
Well, the dog was of no more help in wrapping presents than I was. He chewed the wrapping paper, attacked the tape roll — but she kept him up with her until she was finished . . .
I got a pair of slippers for Christmas. I’m thinking I can teach the dog to fetch them for me.
Maybe I’ll start smoking a pipe too . . .