I don't like closed doors. Don't like doors closing in my face.
I would rather be out, digging under the bottle brush, pulling roots from the nasturtiums. I would rather chase scurrying squirrels.
I love to roll in wet lawn then dry my paws on the carpet. Mom may fume and fret, give me a bad-dog-slap as she wipes and brushes me all over.
I hate howling away my blues when everyone has left for work. I would rather frolic with that sickly, tick-infested dog who whines in the verandah for my favors.
I don't like to fetch or follow, not even, if a hundred times, I am told : good boy ! good boy !
But when the door opens again all this I will forget.
