Walker, aka: Lil’ Kramer, Tiny Tyson, Son, Wee Walker.
Cattle Dog. 13 years old.
Mode of travel: Quickly, spastically.
Its one of those days when entirely too much sits entirely too heavily. Sure, sure, I’ve been around awhile, lived long enough to know that worry is just a part of it all. Anticipating the negative swirls around my cranium, bouncing around like a pinball. Where’s a guys next meal gonna come from? My advice: lick the floor for every morsel on the off chance that those few will be the calories that pull you through the lean times. You can never be too prepared. Recently, I discovered traces of food particles on pant legs, it feels like things are really starting to look up. Then there’s that Blue girl. Oh, the Blue girl. I’d roll my eyes if I could right now, but I’m still figuring that trick out. She makes relentless passes, flirts or some strangeness and it’s just too much. Too much. Hold on. One second. Sorry, some dude and a yellow lab were just walking out front, had to yell at them, clear the sidewalk of such vermin. I mean, really, walking in front of the house. A yellow lab. Gross. As I was saying, I really dig the meals in the joint these days and the little extras here and there and all. What? That’s where we left off right? Before I heard the mail man at the door and had to give him a little piece of my mind, right? Is that a Magpie in the yard? Be right back.