Well, here I am. Up again, at eight in the morning, pouring my heart out onto a page, or…a computer screen, at this ungodly hour. Wow, that just isn’t symbolic at all, is it? I need some candles, or something. I haven’t told anyone this yet, but I just got fired from my job at the station, cause I bit the chief. I haven’t even told my wife yet. She’ll probably leave me for that other dog, Gerard. No…who’s Houndson Doggington? Oh, that snooty wiener dog I always see in Central Park? God, I hate that guy.
No way. I’m a beagle, and my name is Mike. Right now, my wife Judy is off getting bagels. We have this way of calling each other, where we blow a plastic bugle we found on the ground at a street parade. I thought I heard the bugal a little bit earlier, but that’s impossible. And anyway, even if I did, there’s no way I can get to her now. There’s sure to be a fuss when the shopkeeper sees a bugle blowing beagle buying bagels.
Anyway, I’m gonna miss that job. I will admit, I did break a few rules. On occasion, I’d make a deal with a dealer. I’d let them by without barking if they hit me up with a little sumptin’ sumptin’. But yesterday, the chief caught me high as a hot air balloon on the job, so I bit him, and he fired me on the spot. What? No, I mean I lost my job, he didn’t shoot the white patch of fur on my lower back. That’s a little presumptuous of you, don’t you think?
Dog god, help me.