woe thy name is dooley

Dooley has reached the end of his rope. He has briskly marched past the line in the sand. He has tested his tolerance and pushed it beyond the breaking point.

He is done being ignored.

He is currently pacing around the living room, emitting a low mournful protest about how hard his life is. He has picked every toy out of his basket and proceeded to squeak or nudge them until they become uninteresting. He has pawed the sofas (I am laying on one, mom is sitting on the other) and chirped in complaint that there does not appear to be any room for him. (In the humans' defense, Dooley may be stumpy but he stretches out to an unnatural length when given a soft sofa to lounge on.)

Mom has a head cold from hell, I have...well...an insane job that sucks the life force from me. We are apparently boring in every possible way. (Of which I am totally fine with.)


So Dooley has requested that you give him full court sympathy as being the most woeful westie in the world. (And if you buy that one, I have a bridge in the desert I'd love to sell ya...)