Foxes and other problems

Here’s the deal. If I’m called a fox one more time I’m going to explode. Usually, I’m very mild-mannered and considerate. But, I’ve been a called a fox for the past six years by people who see me out walking with Mom. That’s maybe six thousand times. Here’s a big hint – does anyone really think she has a fox on a leash? How many animal control violations would that be?

I know Shiba isn’t a common breed here in the U.S. And we do bear a superficial resemblance to exceptionally cute foxes – but, come on. This little “fox” has dog tags, rabies tags and a chip tag. Think people. Don’t let the left sides of your brains become a foreign country. No borders under our scalps.

I guess this is my day to rant. I apologize in advance for this next one because it’s about my brother. I do love him. But, boy, Riley can be trying. For one thing, despite his adorable narcissism, he’s a neat freak. And, you know, I can’t always keep my lab pristine. Some of those experiments get really messy. Especially the explosions. When they happen, I can count on Mr. Squeaky Clean poking his head in and tsk-tsking the whole thing. I know he keeps his mirror crystal clear and everything, but it is only a mirror after all. It’s not like there’s original thought coming out of it. In fact, there’s not even a reflective thought anywhere near it.

Then there are his many, many requirements. Always the same thing in the same way at the same time every day. If I have to listen to one more lecture on punctuality I’d drive a nail through my head except that it doesn’t fit with the theme of our website. So, I’ll just skip it, but it’s tempting.

Well, I guess that’s it. Thanks for giving me space to vent. I’ll be back to normal by tomorrow.

I’ll look for you on the left side.