I had every intention of rising peaceably this morning and doing a detailed recounting of our trip up into the Ozarks; birds were singing, the coffee was burbling, the bacon was popping, dad still snoring, all necessary elements for a great writing session, when I made the mistake of glancing at the FB feed. And why do they call it a “feed” anyway, when what it usually resembles is what happens about two hours AFTER I feed, and is usually followed by a little butt scooting action across the cool grass?
Anyway, sandwiched between stomach-turning discussions concerning Justin Bieber’s mop and who’s-using-what toilet lies story so insidious in its message that it CANNOT go unchallenged:
“Dogs resent being hugged”.
Are you freaking kidding me? Who does this pontificating windbag think he is, and who did he interview to get this “information”? Yeah, that’s what I thought; so I did a little research of my own, and in following the example of the media and academia everywhere, I have decided that character assassination is much more effective than actual facts, so here goes:
The man’s name is “Stanley”; do you really need any more?
Although obviously unaware of which end of a horse to mount, he wears a cowboy hat in his profile picture; I learned a long time ago not to trust certain people, men that wear pinkie rings, politicians with American flag lapel pins, anyone with larger than absolutely necessary hair, and now added to that list, overweight guys sporting rustic headgear for press release photos.
The funding for his “research” has clearly been provided by cats, and he is obviously securely in the hip pocket of the Feline Legion of Pussiecats, or FLOP, and any findings he reports should be viewed in that light.
Why am I so adamant that about the fallacy of his findings? Well, for starters, he didn’t call me. As he is no doubt aware, I AM the Charlemagne, Lady Charles of the House Bravissimo, benevolent monarch ruling from my throne at the Casa del Whasilica, and I’m a big proponent of hugs, especially when I’m the hugger as opposed to the huggee. After my time of exile in the crate, any form of physical contact is infinity preferable to the alternative lack thereof; ear, butt, brisket, underarms, ham hocks, jowls, etc, they’re all there for a reason and obviously not going to scratch themselves, so you humans had better get with the program.
Maybe Lord Stanley’s research only involved high falutin’, pure bred dogs, as I doubt that he would have gotten the same responses if he had conducted his research at the local shelter, or even better, underneath almost any overpass in America.
So, Dr Stanley, this is your personal invitation to visit the Casa Del Whackos and engage in a frank dialogue concerning how easily you were coerced by the cache of catnip, procured with the coins of a coalition of cats; we’ll be waiting, as we all like hugs, even dad.