Two Dogs Were Arguing
Before beginning, you must know that Ed and Bootsie, while they were born in two very different geographical locations, are exactly the same age.
The sun was getting lower in the western sky. It smiled just before it disappeared over the horizon, trailing pink, orange and purple streaks.
Two dogs were arguing down the street.
Normally dogs do not vocalize with vehement volume. They are actually quite respectful and polite to one another; an asbstract form of professional courtesy i suppose. But seeing as they tend to reside on opposing lots, louder expression of thought is necessary.
"Excuse me!" said the chocolate lab, named Bootsie, on the eastern side of the street. "It is NOT Thursday, but is in fact Wednesday."
They had already been involved in a discussion for some time.
"You are sadly mistaken!" replied the scottish terrier on the western side, whose name i am unable to properly pronounce. We shall call him Ed. If he protests and demands his actual name be used, then i will make amends. Calling him by a false name is my doing. You are at no fault; i will make sure he understands that.
"Oh yeah?" asked Bootsie. "How do you figure?!"
Ed, quite sure of himself, yelled, "I just got off the phone with my uncle Fargus! He said we already went through Thursday last week!"
Bootsie, being a very bright dog, had a strong desire to show his intelligence. He questioned where Fargus had acquired his information since there is only one Thursday in a dog's life and it comes on the exact date of his third birthday (in human years). The second is too early, and the fourth is really too late for anything particularly special, and so the third is precisely where it falls.
Somewhere along the evolutionary chain of labelling, dogs moved a number by accident. Just one. A 2 moved to where a 7 should be, or an 8 to where a 3 should be. No one's quite sure, due to a communication gap, but we are certain that it did occur. A word may have been misplaced as well. As a result, dog years are named by days of the week, but they start on Tuesday. To calculate age, a dog has 8 years to every one human year for the first 3, and 7 after that. So, a dog turning 16 (in dog years), would be entering wednesday.
By the time Bootsie had thought through all of this, which his great grandfather (wisest of all scottish terriers in the northern part of the country; the southern had a fairly smarter dog inhabiting its region) had taught him, he had fallen asleep. One cannot blame him for becoming weary with such a mass of calculations to perform.
Ed, with no one to discuss it with further, decided to dig a hole in the corner of the yard.
The sun was getting lower in the western sky. It smiled just before it disappeared over the horizon, trailing pink, orange and purple streaks.
Two dogs were arguing down the street.
Normally dogs do not vocalize with vehement volume. They are actually quite respectful and polite to one another; an asbstract form of professional courtesy i suppose. But seeing as they tend to reside on opposing lots, louder expression of thought is necessary.
"Excuse me!" said the chocolate lab, named Bootsie, on the eastern side of the street. "It is NOT Thursday, but is in fact Wednesday."
They had already been involved in a discussion for some time.
"You are sadly mistaken!" replied the scottish terrier on the western side, whose name i am unable to properly pronounce. We shall call him Ed. If he protests and demands his actual name be used, then i will make amends. Calling him by a false name is my doing. You are at no fault; i will make sure he understands that.
"Oh yeah?" asked Bootsie. "How do you figure?!"
Ed, quite sure of himself, yelled, "I just got off the phone with my uncle Fargus! He said we already went through Thursday last week!"
Bootsie, being a very bright dog, had a strong desire to show his intelligence. He questioned where Fargus had acquired his information since there is only one Thursday in a dog's life and it comes on the exact date of his third birthday (in human years). The second is too early, and the fourth is really too late for anything particularly special, and so the third is precisely where it falls.
Somewhere along the evolutionary chain of labelling, dogs moved a number by accident. Just one. A 2 moved to where a 7 should be, or an 8 to where a 3 should be. No one's quite sure, due to a communication gap, but we are certain that it did occur. A word may have been misplaced as well. As a result, dog years are named by days of the week, but they start on Tuesday. To calculate age, a dog has 8 years to every one human year for the first 3, and 7 after that. So, a dog turning 16 (in dog years), would be entering wednesday.
By the time Bootsie had thought through all of this, which his great grandfather (wisest of all scottish terriers in the northern part of the country; the southern had a fairly smarter dog inhabiting its region) had taught him, he had fallen asleep. One cannot blame him for becoming weary with such a mass of calculations to perform.
Ed, with no one to discuss it with further, decided to dig a hole in the corner of the yard.
posted by Still Daddy at 7:01 PM
4 Comments:
strangest story you've come up w/ yet my dear relation.
i don't know why i made this anonymous...you know who it is
Yay! I like this story! The one about the frogs is cute, too. I guess I'm a sucker for stories about animals. There was a novel I read in 6th grade (and once more some proceeding year) that was about two house cats who escape the safety of their home to freedom. One cat is fat and smart while the other is fast and not-so-bright. Together they face challenges, make new friends, and take on the best traits of each other. In the end, they've learned valuable lessons and return home. It was one of my favorites, probably still is. The Grand Escape is the title if you ever come across it. Well, g2g. Konover with the C's (chels and craig). ttyl
Did you change the ending? or maybe it just looks different because I haven't read it in a while.
-Alyssa
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