My Cushion screws up, the air bed goes pop! and other bad stuff.

Okay, so I can't really these days but no one needs to know that, right?

My air bed is dead. My Cushion decided it was too soft and he pumped and pumped the bed up until the stitches popped. Pop! pop! pop! the stitches went, scaring My Typist half to death because she was on it when it happened. 

My Cushion really screwed up. The air bed had to be thrown away. 


But that's not the worst of it.

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Remember how Dr Dog said I was supposed to go only on short leash walks for 2 weeks? 


Well, My Cushion felt sorry for me so he let me off the leash in the park yesterday and I ran and ran. I couldn't help it! It's been a week since I played with my friends and I! am! going! MAd! 


Then I climbed up these steps.

This is a re-enactment. These pictures were taken some time back. My Typist put them here to make My Cushion feel bad. She knew they'd come in handy one day.

 "What is wrong with you?!" The Typist screamed at My Cushion when she heard about our short easy walk that wouldn't stress my neck and legs. 


I guess he screwed up again.


But that's not the worst of it.

*

My legs have started to itch. I think some ants got into them! I can't stop licking and chewing my toes. They've gone all gummy and red. 

The Typist gave me a medicated bath and I've been getting a little blue pill every morning. She's been hosing down my belly and legs, and rubbing an ointment between my toes but nothing seems to help. [She called Dr Dog this morning too, and left a hysterical message.]


Last night, I tried to eat my front right paw. The Typist couldn't bear it any more, so she made me wear a sock.

"Couldn't you at least have tried to find me a prettier sock, Typist? Something a little more colour coordinated perhaps?"

But that's not the worst of it.

*

I, of course, refused to wear an ugly sock and skipped about until it came off. The Typist kept pulling the sock back on and I kept pulling it off. Haha! I thought I made it quite clear who was boss around the house, and that would be the end of that!


And then.

I couldn't believe my eyes. It was The Horrible Thing! Bad memories came flooding back! 

I ran and cowered in a corner and looked as pitiful as I could [which, as you know, usually does the trick]. It was My Pushover Cushion so I thought I had a particularly good chance of getting away with it.

But it was no use.

"Waa..aaaaa..ah...hh!h!!!..."

*

I kept knocking into everything. I didn't dare move. 

I couldn't even go up to bed. It was ridiculous! [I might write a stiff letter of complaint to the SPCA about whoever invented this death trap.]

Finally, The Typist had to take The Horrible Thing off just so I could go upstairs.

"You know, Typist, in retrospect, that sock wasn't so bad after all. How about we give it another try?"

"No? Really? No?"

I can tell you no one got any sleep last night because The Horrible Thing kept knocking into the bed and scraping the floor and making horrible noises.

*

So here I am, back on my inferior quality old lumpy bed, not allowed to play for yet another week, with itchy gummy legs and toes, and A Horrible Thing on my head.

I think I may really have screwed up this time.

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So how's YOUR week going?