A letter from Baxter’s dog, Rudy
Whel frenz, I was ther. Bakster’s buk pardy. He prefurrs I refur to him az Mastr, wich emplys sum Roilty capasite. So far az ledership I’d rank him sumwher just behind General Custer.
So, he throes this barbecue to anowns his latest markitting asolt on the gollabul! I red sum ov it. At lest the pichurs ar gud. His artist frends demonstraded wye thay mak a livin drowing insted of trhowin a rop!
His mother an stepfodder was ther. He putt the ol man tar pappuring the wel howz — his mother was a soprise. I’d herd him tel peppel he was an orfan to get simpathe.
Bumbling Black mus be a pirromanyak! He stokd the campfhire with enuf wud to bild a hunting loge, then primd it with a galon of gass. He lit it an blu the hud offe his pikup!
By dark the blaz had burrnd doun to the siz of a smal apartmnt complx!
Garre shode up luking 4 a yodeling dawg. I awdishunned but I’d breethd enuf somoke to fog ten akers of cotten, so he passed.
Then the muzishuns kam owt of the wud wirk! Bloogras. I kan tak it ore leve it! I hd to mak mye rowndz.
I finuly fownd the hors’s. Thay were standing arownd on 3 leggs grumbulin abot the fier an makin fune of the roppers. Same confursachun I’d herd when I past the artist wivs.
I got bak. Peple were tryn to leve, but Bax was stil pating ther bak and pumping ther arm hoping thayd menchun his buk in ther nuze papper or tv sho. It wuz chamful!
Neckst morning hour plaz lukt lik New Orleans after Katrina! Enuf alumanumm kans to resikle a spas shutul! The fier went owt 2 daz latr.
Things are bak to normal. I’ve got so mane bonz berryd arowned her it luks lik a helafunt gravyard! Ges I’m set for wintr. Prety gud pardy. ❖
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