My mum,—Tracy, tells me everyone loves animals, especially puppies. I hope that’s true because I am a puppy. Well, not really. I turned two-years-old on November 11th.
Oops! Where are my manners? My name is Leanonme’s Indygo. That’s what my breeder, Miss. Jolanda, named me so she could sign me up with the Canadian Kennel Club. On my certificate of registration, my father’s name is listed as One in a Million Fantasy Island (Che) and my mother’s name is Defenatly Maby. My father sure has a super long name, and my mother should definitely change the spelling. Well, maybe?
My owners, Mum and Pop, insist on calling me Indy. Maybe it has something to do with me tearing through the yard like I’m racing around the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. I guess that’s why Pop stuck me in his boot. Pet owners are weird creatures.
Do you want to know more about my breed?
Me too! So I figured out a way we can do that together, but you have to cross your heart and promise me you won’t tell my mum what I’m about to do.
Thanks for crossing your fingers and your toes!
Follow me as I pad up the stairs in our 1841 farmhouse. Pop glued down miniature braided rugs—blue, red, and…cream. I think those are the colors? I only see blue, yellow, and lots of different shades. Thanks to the carpet, no one can hear my nails clicking, not even my older brother Patches. He’s snoring.
I hop on the landing, hold my breath, and then perk up my ears. Mum and Pop are fast asleep. The only sound coming from their bedroom, or I should say their freezer, is the whirling fan standing guard near the doorway. Mum complains about something called hot flashes.
Poor Pop. He has to burrow under the duvet like a mole scurrying into a hole. Just his bristly salt-and-pepper moustache and his red nose peek out. Their room is even too cold for me, and I’m wrapped in my silky, apricot-colored fur coat.
I turn right, prance into Mum’s studio, and jump on her chair. I need to hurry. It’s almost dawn. I can’t afford to get caught. I’m always getting scolded for something. Like when I chewed Mum’s favorite chair. The hole is bigger than a baseball. Hee hee.
I stand on my hind legs, flip open the laptop, and smack the space bar with my right paw. The internet pops up. I grin. Having night vision means I won’t have to switch on Mum’s stained-glass lamp.
The article I’m reading says that, during the rule of the Han dynasty in 100 B.C., China was the breeding ground for the very first Chinese Crested Powder Puff. A dam can pop out a hairless and a powder puff all from the same litter. The hairless gene is dominant.
My two sisters were hairless pups, so that means I’m rare and special. Excuse me I need to lick my fur.
The article also states I’m unique due to spontaneous genetic mutations—. What? I’m a genetic mutation?
Oh my! Who’s that?
Get a load of those beady eyes and prickly white whiskers. This past June, Mugly beat out 28 ugly dogs from around the world. Imagine that! He even earned a title—Officially 2012 World’s Ugliest Dog International megastar. Just think, somewhere down the line, I’m related to…to this ugly, hairless creature.
Oops-a-daisy! It’s not nice to make fun of others. I should send him a quick email. In case you’re wondering, I’m typing with a blue font to match my piercing, Paul Newman-blue eyes.
Dear International Megastar,
Congratulations on being the world’s ugliest dog.
I’m typing a post on my mum’s blog, and I told her readers you are one ugly dog. But…I’ve changed my mind. You’re rather cute! So I’m emailing to ask for your forgiveness.
P.S. I may be your long, lost cousin.
I hope he answers my email.
Wait! Mugly’s responded!
Mugly here. No need to apologize chap. I am ugly and proud of it!
Did you know I’m a huge star over here in the U.K.?
Thank you for accepting my apology.
Can you ask your mother, Bev Nicholson, to send me proof? I don’t believe everything I read.
My mother has granted your wish.
I’ve attached a photo. I’m the one wearing the diamond-studded bow-tie. Isn’t it smashing?
P.S. You can call me Ugly-Mugly.
I’m drooling over your dazzling bow-tie! And if that photo is for real, my mum’s going to flip when she learns that Donny Osmond pet you! But I still need more proof.
P.S. I hope to be famous like you one day!
Here’s the proof you’re after. Just watch the You Tube video, and then let me know what you think about Donny Osmond singing “Puppy Love” to me!
So mate, are you a believer now?
P.S. Maybe if you hang out with me, you will be famous one day!
Hokey Dinah! I’m a believer! Wait a minute. That’s the title to a Beatles song.
Anyway, when Mum was a teenager, she plastered Donny’s posters all over her bedroom walls. And after she views your cool video, she’s going to kick up her heels and perform her happy dance around the family room.
Oh oh! My dog senses are tingling. I have a strange feeling I’ll be spending time in the dog house.
Bye for now,
P.S. Please thank your mother for me!
Oh no! I wanted to tell you more about me and to reveal a special page called Fur Babies, but I hear footsteps.
I’m ba-ack! It’s me—Matilda.
Indy’s gone into hidin’, so I’ll wrap this up. Puh-leeze, address your comments to Indy or me. And remember, Tracy has no clue what’s going on.
And Ms. Nicholson, thank you for allowing Indy to post Mugly’s mug shots, and for the super video!
Here’s the usual mumbo jumbo:
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