Bob the Dog Returns to Ricochet Sans Master

Master left Ricochet awhile back because he had nothing more to say. (Sadly, if truth be known, Master ran out of things to say long before he stopped posting.)

In fact—and I say this with all humility —the most discerning among you hoomans on Ricochet insisted that my photos in Master’s feeble posts was the only reason that they read his posts in the first place. Mrs. She was the most eager to remind the Master that my face, woof woof, was worth any number of flaccid words by the Master, a hooman of limited understanding.

Master may have run out of things to say, but this good boy, woof woof, has plenty to say. First, the titular Leader of your Pack—a bumbling fellow by the name of Biden or Brandon or some such—has a doggo by the name of Commander, who was wont to bite, nom nom, Secret Service agents. I met Commander once and the odor emanating from his rear—an odor which contains a variety of nuanced messages—let me know, sniff sniff, that he was more sinned against than sinning. In fact, Commander told me that the Agents never told him what a good boy he was and also failed to rub his tummy. That’s animal abuse right there, hoomans, so those cruel Agents deserved a little bite on their ankles and tushes. Ten little nips to the lower extremities and Commander was banned from the White House grounds. Can you believe that? You hoomans are a cruel race.

Just recently, Master adopted a little cocker spaniel. Master may not have known that the little doggo was a bitch, or, in the parlance of old ladies, a “she dog.” Now, it’s well known among visitors to the Master’s home that I have a fondness for humping any leg that crosses my field of vision. Woof woof. But here, right in my living room, was a real life doggo to hump, hubba hubba. And even though I no longer have any balls (Master, much to his everlasting shame, had them cut off), I immediately jumped on and humped the heck out of that good-lookin’ little cocker spaniel.

Master said “No, Bob, no!” But I was having so much fun, pant pant, that I barely heard Master’s voice. I had to be pulled off. You hoomans are a cruel race.

That’s it for now. I need to take Master for a walk through another dark and wet Oregon evening, though Master continues to believe that he takes me for a walk. Silly man, woof woof.