Your friendly neighborhood Superpup is on STRIKE.

Superpup on Strike

Superpup on Strike

I have no choice.

After years of faithful service, asking nothing more than a (halfway) decent meal, an occasional belly scratch and a place to lay my oh-so-weary head, what thanks do I get?




Yes, dear reader, shocking as it may sound, that is indeed the thanks this devoted canine received when simply executing said canine’s number-one-top-priority-most important job – chasing and apprehending (and hopefully consuming) rodents.

This past weekend, after days of perseverance, diligence, and flawless execution, I successfully  captured a squirrel (granted, it was only a teenage squirrel of questionable intelligence, instinct and experience, but still…).  Before I could finish the job (out of respect for your delicate human sensibilities I won’t go into the details) the “lady” of the house started screaming, which brought Hoser running (more like lumbering) out of the house.

What transpired then wasn’t pretty.  Hoser, bellowing like an enraged bull (at least that’s what I imagine they must sound like), somehow managed to catch me and wrestle me to the ground, during which altercation the squirrel was dislodged from my formidable jaws.  Hoser hovered over me like a triumphant ogre (at least that’s what I imagine they look like), and the “lady” practically wept in relief (pathetic, isn’t it?).

And all the while I was frantically struggling to free myself from the big bully’s (Hoser’s) iron grip, THE STUPID SQUIRREL JUST STOOD THERE.  So the moment Hoser foolishly gave me an opening, I was off, once again capturing the Darwin Award winning rodent.  That’s when Hoser got really nasty.  There are few things more unpleasant than listening to Hoser swear at you at the top of his lungs (what will the neighbors say!) while his face just gets redder and redder.  Perhaps only one – Hoser grabbing you at the same time.  Yet again, I was robbed of the opportunity to complete my mission – but I did have the satisfaction of causing Hoser to trip and fall and hurt himself.  Heh.

At this point, I was imprisoned in the so-called “doggy pen” until the miserable rodent eventually (must have been hours, at least) managed to find its way out of the yard.

So, Dear Reader, now you know why I’m on strike.

At least until my admirable sense of duty triumphs over my completely justifiable outrage…

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