I'll Never Be A Model

There is really no denying that I’m devilishly handsome (yes, that sounds narcissistic of me, but a truth’s a truth).  I mean, look at all the photos I’ve posted throughout the years.   Even at my stinkiest (you know, immediately after getting a bath…have I mentioned lately that my family and I have very different definitions of the words clean and dirty?) I can still strike a pose that would make a runway model jealous.  And then there are the golden locks, the flowing tail, and the deep brown eyes.  What can I say?  I’m quite the package.

That being said, I’ve recently come to the realization that, despite all this, I will never have a model’s career.  I’ve already told you, my loyal readers, about the scar I have alongside my right eye from when I tried moving a building with my head (for a recap, click here), and then there is the story of my missing dew claw (click here), but what happened this weekend, I believe, was the final nail in the coffin of my professional career.

You see, on Saturday morning Ma took me outside to check the perimeter of my backyard out east.  We had arrived the night before, but, because it was dark outside when we pulled up to the house, I was not given free range of the backyard to search for any intruders.  Anyway, as soon as Ma opened the door, I raced across the porch, down the stairs, and was greeted, at the foot of the stairs, by the sound of two of the three dogs next door barking at me from their yard.

Allow me to take a moment to introduce the dogs next door.  The first is a little dog with a fevered bark.  The second dog, who is much bigger, just barks at me from the middle of his yard in a loud stately way.  Both, according to Sister, are very nice (she met them personally when Ma and Pa bought the house), but I've never been formally introduced to them.  The third dog, who was not present, is a squat lumbering old guy who, last summer, wandered up onto my porch and tried to steal the hot dogs Pa was making for lunch.

Anyway, back to my tale.  The two dogs were barking at me and I went over to the fence to investigate.  We ran back and forth for a while barking, but then the next door neighbor called for her dogs to come in and Ma asked me nicely if I'd like to come in to eat my breakfast (Ma had barely gotten the word 'breakfast' out before I was running, full speed, up the stairs toward the house).

The Injured Party

It was when we were both inside that Ma noticed that there was a scratch on the top of my nose, a pink bump on the front part, and a little bit of blood oozing from both.  Now, Ma doesn't know exactly what happened to my nose--and I'm not telling--but, I'll have everyone know that I was a big boy and did not make a peep when whatever happened to me happened to me.  Besides, the actual event was not nearly as bad as the aftermath:  Ma decided to wash off my nose and rub it with medicine (the water stung and the application of medication required her coming up behind me--or worse, sneaking up on me while I was sleeping--and grabbing hold of my snout).  Talk about disturbing! 

A couple of days have passed, the wounds are starting to heal, and I'm starting to come to terms with the idea that I will never be a model.  Pa has helped a lot in coping with this realization:  he put a nice spin on the entire situation.  He told me that my scars make me look tough.  I knew I always liked that man.