Wilbur looked around and sighed.
Once again he had been forced out of his warm bed in front of the fire at an ungodly time of morning.
Once again he had been made to go running through the grasses and marshes to please his crazy master.
Once again he had to sniff out the reeking stench of buckshot filled duck, so that said master could boast about his skills to his poker buddies.
And what did he get out of it? What did he get for his tireless and thankless work? What did he...
"Good boy Wilbur! Good boy, that's my good boy, who's a good doggie? Who's my boy?"
His master stroked his ears and rubbed his head and Wilbur instantly forgot all his lament and bounded off into the grasses.
Oh yes. He'd forgotten. That's what he got out of it.
He was a GOOD dog! |
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