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Golden Child

Oh my papa to me you are so wonderful . . .

Papa (you must pronounce it like ze fwench with ze accent on ze second syllable) takes me to work with him on Thurdays. I LOVE IT!

Papa (wemember ze fwench way) packs my school bag on Wednesdays night, fweezes bottles of water for my dwinking pleasure, and early Tursday mornings we hop into his work van and head off to the job site, in Gwanville, MA, or the other site in Gwanby, CT.
'
No matter, I'm a chillin' bitch in ze van and I know where we're headed.

TO SEE MY NEW AND VERY HOT BEST FWIEND FOREVER.

We arrive between 6-6:30 am. While Papa (wemember ze fwench way) unloads the van, I follow him around to make sure he hasn't forgotten anything he may need. Once I'm sure he isn't in need of my naggin' waggin' services, I trot off on my own for a bit. We're always the first ones at the site, so naturally, I take that time to sniff out anything new and unfamiliar and make sure that all the familiar stuff remains familiar. Sound familiar?

Speaking of familiar sound, I know the sound of everyone's vehicles. I know who will emerge from what truck, and not necessarily because they arrive in any particular order. Well, of course Grandpapa arrives shortly after we do, as he should, and when my very fwench Grandpapa (gettin' it yet? Ze fwench way!) Jean-Guy (pronounced Jon (soft n sound) Gee ) arrives I lose my mind. I like that biped even if he does smell like that devil's spawn, Gauge. Gauge is a dogarfin' blog waitin' to happen, but that blog'll hafta wait. I've other things to share. Like my hot ONE YEAR OLD BOYTOY!

Let it never be said that I don't drop it like it's hot. Mmhm. That's how I roll. All the boytoys like sniffin' around my assets.

I digress. Shortly after Grandpapa arrives the others begin arriving; one of the guys brings my best friend forever to me. Theo the Thug or Thuggin' Theo whichever you'd prefer, is so arfing hot, I am beside myself as I type this. No really. I'm beside myself. Oh . . .er . . . wait . . .that's a mirror in front of me. Nevermind.

Where was I . . .oh right, Theo *insert floating hearts here* arrives, leaping from his biped's truck in a race with time to find me. One little come hither look from me and he's promising me the world. He's a good little studmuffin, and I lavish him with my attention making him think he is the only one year old in the world. In truth, on Thurdays . . . he is.

We romp and roam everywhere, sniff and lick . . . everything. Our customary routine is to follow everyone working at ground level. Well, I have to keep an eye all the guys so that I can report to Papa on the progress of the building process. That is my JOB! My DUTY! I am paid handsomely for my diligent performance as the Site Bitch.

Once I feel comfortable that everyone and everything is in place, I allow myself the luxury of settling in the cool comfort of the garage. The only unfortunate tale to tell here, gentle readers, is that when Papa is way up on the roof, he can't always see me snoozin' in the garage. So every 20 dogarfing minutes he calls for me. For the love of dog, I just get comfortable and there he is a callin' for me. I know . . . he's told me a thousand times that if something happens to me at the site, or if he loses me (what is he thinking? I know what side of the treat is peanut buttered! I have no plan to walk away from my fatasset life with Papa and the Queen biped - - are you arfing kidding me?) he won't be going home that night. The Queen B would probably have him neutered if anything happened to me on his watch. Hey, that's fine with me, all I'm sayin' is I'm not arfing stupid, and I'm agile and wiley. So ease up, for dogsake.

Speaking of treats, I'm reminded of my love of LUNCH on the job. Oh babydog, let me tell you how susceptible these bipeds are to my Sarah Bernhardt-esque acting abilities. A well-arched eyebrow and an extended paw . . . let's just say, I'm gettin' my share of love, shall we?

I just GOT it like that, don't hate.

After lunch it 's back to the routine of securing the grounds, checking up on everyone . . .and to the nappis interruptus doggie-do(n't) from Papa.

'Bout 3-ish everyday, I head over to Papa and let him know that the day has officially come to a close for me. I know what he's going to say, "just one more hour Drooley and we can go". He doesn't realize that I'm giving HIM that one hour heads-up, and he's never pushed it past that hour to find out what the consequences of defying my wishes might be. So, at 4 o'clock we're back in the van. I last about thirty seconds in the front seat before I give it up, jump into the back and snooze all the way home.

Until this Thursday that is . . . Papa thought he'd stop and get me some icecream (oh he is almost as sweet as my sweet tooth), but I was so arfing tired from all that nappis interruptus, he had to keep pushing the bowl closer to me as I lie there lazily licking, and I do mean lazily. Between unenthusiastic licks, I was falling asleep in my bowl. I couldn't even finish my treat. My sweet Papa even brought the icecream home for me to finish later.

I slept for two days, instead. C'est la vie.

p.s. Je vous aime beaucoup, ma Papa.

I love her, but she's a hog.

Finally, I get the computer.

And I have things to say.

First: To my maternal grandmother - -I am not fat, and there is nothing wrong with my waistline. So, shake if off, lady. You worry about your figure, I'll worry about mine.

Second: I am the original Frisbetarian. I am skilled beyond belief. Were my biped more technologically inclined, I'd have some arfing videos to share. Any complaints, send directly to her inbox.

Third: To my biped queen, just gimme the dogdamned treat. Okay? I'm a little sick of the arfing tricks already. NO, really. I am.

Fourth: Well, I can't think of a fourth, but I will. You just wait and see . . .