The Boss (so she thinks) is asleep. Finally. All this lights on, lights off stuff is wearing on my last nerve. I keep trying to tell her - it's simple. Fleece blankets, couch, sleep. I've been curious about this blog stuff, so I thought I would attempt a mind-meld with her laptop. OMG, what an antiquated piece of junk! I'd mind-meld with her and let her know that she needs an upgrade, but I'd rather she spend all her money on our food and treats.
You won't be hearing from the Pat. There is no way that small cranium can mind-meld with anything more complicated than a squeaky toy. Too much chaos and noise. He's not a bad brother, given the hot mess that he is, but he is entirely too twitchy for any serious concentration. Speaking of concentration, no one could concentrate like my late brother, Scrappy. He transferred his will upon the Boss, constantly. She was putty in his paws. There will never be another brother like Scrappy, but the Pat isn't bad in a pinch. He is awfully warm.
I'm not sure what the Boss has been saying about me/us, as, although I can mind-meld with computers, I can't read. And telling me about it won't work either. When I listen to Boss-ese, all I hear is "blah, blah, blah, blah, treat, blah, blah, blah, food, blah, blah, blah, outside." You get the picture. Where was I? Ohfernatsake, I'm starting to turn into the Boss! I go into another room to get a toy and totally forget why I'm there. So, I have to sit, scratch and think about it. That sends the Boss into conniptions and she drags out that flea comb! Doesn't she realize that is how dogs gather their thoughts? We sit and have a nice scratch.
I better make this short - I can hear tossing and turning in the other room - the one with the really comfortable bed and closed door. If she really loved us, we would be in there, on that bed and under that down comforter. Instead, we are abandoned to our fate on the sofa, under six fleece blankets. It is so unfair. We should be hand-fed treats every fifteen minutes, just to make up the difference.
Before I un-meld from this dinosaur, let me add that it is NEVER, my idea to appear in clothing. N.E.V.E.R. The Pat has an advantage of being eel-like and able to squirm out of his sweaters. I cannot. And it has nothing to do with the fact that Grandma says I look like a loaf of bread. Nothing whatsoever.