American Bitch

Sometimes I like to pretend that Tobey Maguire as Spiderman is my real owner. We'd go to the park, him dressed up as Spidey and me just looking all cute and spotted and people would stop and stare and Tobey/Spidey would look at them and go "yes, my dog is incredible, isn't she?" Then I'd poop and Tobey/Spidey would just leave it because he's a superhero. And then we'd run an agility course together, and then Kirsten Dunst would show up and she'd throw me a stick. I bet Kirsten doesn't have much of an arm but I'd still chase it even though she only threw it like, thirty feet or something. It would be so sweet... I've got lots of times to fantasize about what kind of owner Tobey Maguire would be since I'm trapped in here all day and I've got nothing to do but wait for THEM to get back, so I thought I'd give this blogging thing a whirl. Shout out to all my canis familiaris!
I know Tobey's not coming anytime soon. It's really all just a way for me to try and forget about Mr. B, my number one owner. The other day, my OTHER owner Ms. J. threw away half the carcass of one of those rotisserie chickens from King Sooper's into the trash, and as soon as she went out the door for hunting and gathering or whatever it is they both do when they leave here WITHOUT ME I made my move. Five minutes later, Mr. B. came back from wherever he goes and I found myself in the unfortunate position of having the chicken's ribcage stuck in the roof of my mouth. SO EMBARRASSED!!! I've always had this little thing for Mr. B, and having a chicken carcass crammed into your mouth when the love of your life comes home is pretty embarrassing. Just call me Elizabeth Taylor. Sigh.. I may have to stick with the Tobey fantasy for now.