Awww Monday Woodsterman Style ~ 517 A

 

Anonymous Commented on

September 1, 2025 at 2:23AM:

"Great! Now do dogs."

Written by Skip

In the hill-country hamlet of Howlington, where every porch swing creaked in dog-approved 4/4 time and every breeze carried the faint aroma of hickory-smoked bacon, an underground pack of canines plotted the boldest score ever sniffed. Their alpha, General Barkley von Woofhausen III—a battle-scarred German Shepherd with a silver blaze down his muzzle—had mastered the ancient art of “tail-wag distraction.” A single, perfectly timed thump of his fluffy rudder could make mailmen reroute, squirrels drop acorns, and, most miraculously, humans hand over half their hamburger without noticing the pickle was missing.

On the night of the full moon, the pack assembled atop the grain silo behind the old smoked-meat warehouse. Under the cold gleam of a floodlight powered entirely by slobber-fueled turbines, introductions rolled out like thunder: General Barkley cleared his mighty throat. “We’ll need three things: diversion, infiltration, and the perfect howl—low, sustained, pitched to melt stainless steel.”

First, Duchess Doodlebug, the prancing apricot Poodle, unleashed her secret weapon: a colossal squeaky rubber steak. She rolled it down Main Street. Each bounce sounded like a thousand tennis balls meeting destiny. Bank security dogs—Dobermans in mirrored sunglasses—abandoned their posts to investigate the glorious cacophony.

Second, Tank, the squat English Bulldog, trundled into the lobby and launched into a heartfelt soliloquy on the sacred right of every dog to an endless belly-rub clause in the workplace. The Dobies, ears twitching, formed an impromptu circle of solidarity, tails thumping like timpani.

Third, Luna the Husky vaulted the counter, landing silent on her snow-shoe paws. One icy stare froze the retinal scanner long enough for her to lick it clean and rewire it with a chew-toy copper toothpick she kept hidden under her tongue.

Finally, little Pip the Papillon pirouetted to the vault’s titanium door. His bell-sized bark, layered with ultrasonic harmonics, vibrated the tumblers into surrender. The vault sighed open, revealing the legendary Golden Bone—glimmering, marrow-packed, rumored to grant endless energy, perfect hips, and the ability to hear a cheese wrapper from three counties away.

General Barkley raised one regal paw. “Pack, we ride tonight on the wings of destiny—and bacon grease!” They celebrated on the roof of the silo, passing the bone clockwise, each taking reverent gnaws. Legend has it that after their feast every pack member could sprint uphill both ways, chase eternity, and still be home for supper.

Thus barks the tale of the Great Bone Bonanza, whispered in howls and happy snores across doghouses forevermore. If on a crisp Howlington night you hear a low, contented woof roll down the hills, rest easy: the dogs are already plotting their next tail-wagging triumph.

Thanks Skip