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| Name: |
Mickey
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Age: |
Seven years old
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| Gender: |
Male |
Breed: |
American Rat Terrier |
| Home: |
Colton, Oregon, USA |
I
am Mickey, and mice and gophers fear me, because I can kill them with
laughter.
I live with my guardians, mom and dad, in Colton, Oregon. I have twelve
acres to roam, but I am now, and always shall be, a house dog.
Mom and Dad say that I am a Ratter, but I assure you that I am a squeaky
toy terror. From the very first, when I spotted mom and dad, warily
scoping out the pets at a local pet store, I knew that they were mine.
I took them, and a half dozen Booda toys home that day, and have managed
to perform my most important duty, making them laugh a lot, with
dedication and style. I am genetically programed to respond quickly to
things that go squeak, but I swear I do not know what to do with them,
once I have caught them.
Dad loves to photograph me, though with my black head, and sudden
movements, I am not a great subject. Perhaps, now that I am sporting a
few gray whiskers, He will be more successful. I have special skills. I
can communicate to anyone, exactly what I want, and when I want it, and
I do so regularly. Of course it is pretty simple, I want cookies,
cookies, and maybe jerkie treats.
I have a special trick that cracks everyone up. Whenever anyone gets
near my lair (either the back half of mom and dad's car, or my crate in
evening), I erupt into the most ferocious display of my Tasmanian Devil
act, that the unknowing would never dare to poke finger or toe into my
realm. Those who know me, however, are aware that this display was
permanently in my repertoire from the first time that a gas station
attendant came to the rear of our car, and I went all Rambo on him. He
laughed really hard, obviously unaware of my vicious nature. As a peace
offering, he proffered a dog biscuit. Now, I know that I am not a dog,
but he did not, so being a gracious person, I humbly accepted his
offering. From that time forth, all persons approaching my realm are
expected to contribute something equally palatable, or be regaled with
my maniacal show. Sometimes, if they ignore me, I am almost apoplectic
when dad drives away, and pant and whine until he is forced to stop and
provide me with a worthy repast.
As previously stated, my gift is laughter, and I give it freely. Even
the most anti canine individuals sooner or later, fall under my spell.
Dad has submitted photos of me to Dog of the Day, apparently still
laboring under the belief that I am a dog. I think he is dyslexic, but
I humor him. Did I mention that I make them take me for at least a half
mile walk every single day, rain, or snow, or sun? I do.
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