Whence the Funk?

My dog does not roll in the mud. He's not drawn to roadkill, or muck, or even lakes or ponds for that matter. Vince's preference is to spend the morning lying on the back porch, stretched across the worn wood planks, surveying his kingdom. Inside, he gravitates to the rug in the living room, or the floor beneath Penny's desk. He's tidy, respectable and out-and-out adorable -- just look at him!

So why does he smell like an open bag of fish-flavored Fritos?

Is it on account of he's so popular, and everybody's always wanting to pet him? Occasionally, even, and here I'm referring mainly to someone whose name rhymes with Fenelope, petting him with their *feet*?

I'm giving him a bath either way, of course, but, and I think I speak for everyone when i say this, if hand- and foot-grease are what's making him such a funky little fellow, then NASTA CANASTA.

Nastoleum. Nastified, nastogenous, nastorrific nashtrays in Nashua, New Nastshire.

Not a fan of the handgrease hypothesis.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Oh, that was a good laugh!