Evidently, Mr Stubb doesn’t have much faith in the stability of the Federal Reserve, so he has decided to introduce a new form of currency to the Casa del Whackos…
But first, who is Mr Stubb? He is a stocky red mutt that just showed up in the company of the neighbor’s dog, Toby, and quietly infiltrated to the inner sanctum of the Casa. Like most that show up here, he is a rough case; an ear split in half, multiple scars all over his face, all signs of what many would consider as at least a “high risk house guest”.
But we have learned that what many would consider monsters are merely lonely things lacking in the societal graces that many would use to judge others. The Stubbster is a strange dog, and extremely intuitive; twice I have had appointments set up to have him de-clackerized, and twice he has disappeared in those very mornings. He then shows up again with a particularly smug expression on his grizzled grin, proving once again my daughter’s assertion that yes, dogs can smirk.
So Stubb still sports an impressive pair of brovaries, mangerines, plumbobs, giblets, or whatever euphemism you might find acceptable to describe a wrinkly beanbag. This would usually cause some issues with the other male inmates of the Casa but the Stubbly one is a remarkably chill dog. He has yet to engage Charlie and Titus in their nightly reenactments of the Battle of Bitey Mouth, instead content to work out his massive mandibles on my scrawny forearm.
So, what is the new form of currency that Stubb has deemed trustworthy in these uncertain times? Shoes. Whenever he wishes to purchase a particular favor, he brings me a shoe. An unchewed-on shoe, at that. Just as we humans don’t want our folding money soiled and tattered, he doesn’t want his offerings to be treated with disrespect. So now the Casa is littered with solitary shoes, pairs separated and forlorn around the house and even outside as a result of Stubby’s constant withdrawals and deposits from what he views as his own personal checking account.
But although shoes are the preferred currency, they are not the only form of exchange he will employ. A scrap of paper, a dried up oak leaf, a sock, underwear, anything that he decides to be of value is considered more than adequate to get what he wants.
And who’s fault is this? I must take the blame, as it is true that I am no match for the superior tactics that the canines engage in to maintain control of the Casa del Whackos. I may be the warden, but it is quite obvious to all that the inmates are the ones running this particular asylum. So I have learned to gracefully embrace my humiliating position, and exist only to entertain them with my simple ways. If they want to go? I drive the van. If Charlie wants to go for a lean? I grab the keys and my helmet. If they want to sleep? I scoot so far over on the bed that the only thing keeping me from plummeting to the floor is the ninja-like skill I have developed, known as Buttfu. This is where I use the ridge along the edge of the mattress, clenching it with my gluteus maximi to keep from plunging towards the abyss. It may be demeaning and humiliating, but it also saves me from having to spend money on a Stairmaster, or at worse, having to wear a pair of Spanx.
It’s always a panty at the Casa…
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