‘I’m sorry, so sorry’
If you didn’t read last week’s editor’s note, you need to go back and read it before you read this week’s editor’s note.
If you read last week’s editor’s note about my dog Buddy and the Christmas ham incident, you need to know that I wrote about in Agweek magazine because I was the editor and could do whatever I wanted.
The week after I wrote about it, Buddy go to tell his side of the story in a column titled “I’m sorry, so sorry” Here goes:
It was Christmas night and the family was all ready to sit down and enjoy a big meal. Of course, I have to be confined to the porch and the basement while everyone else is eating.
At first, I cried thinking that maybe someone would feel sorry for me and let me beg at the table. My sitting up and waving my paws trick usually nets me a treat or two. But it didn’t work and I soon tired of the crying routine.
It was then that I smelled the ham, or as I later found out, the grease that was cooked out of the ham. I found it and it smelled so delicious — Uncle Bruce really outdid himself cooking that ham. I was just going to take a little taste and go back to my crying routine, but I just couldn’t stop eating once I’d started.
Then when the family was done eating and they let me back into the fold, I realized that I didn’t feel very well.
I started to get woozy and sweaty, then before you know it, I threw up. What a commotion the family made, like they’ve never seen anybody throw up before.
Luckily, the accident happened in the kitchen on the linoleum and there seemed to be no hard feelings between me and Uncle Bruce and Aunt Diane.
In fact, Uncle Bruce took out the wet/dry vacuum and, in minutes, the place was clean and everyone was laughing and joking about it. My father was sure there was nothing left in my stomach to throw up, so I wasn’t banished to the basement.
Then it happened again. I was in the living room and I tried to get into the kitchen, but I just couldn’t make it. This time I was banished and, after the mess was cleaned up, there wasn’t any laughing and joking around. But when they came down to the basement to get me, they saw the pan — that had been full of grease at one time — and they realized why I was sick.
It was later that night when my mother told me that I shouldn’t feel so bad because it really wasn’t my fault. But I do feel bad and I hope that Uncle Bruce and Aunt Diane will invite me back next year. I think next year they better hide the ham grease in a better spot. I’m sorry, but I can’t always be held responsible for my actions when it comes to food. The end.
My brother-in-law or Uncle Bruce as Buddy calls him, took a lot of teasing from his friends and the whole town of Mountain, N.D. The town only has about 100 residents — most of whom live in the nursing home — and word about the ham incident went through the town like a dry brush fire in hurricane force winds.
So I never wrote about him again, that is until that fateful deer hunting incident when I got sprayed by a skunk. But that’s a tale for another edition.
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