Wednesday, August 8, 2012


I know I said the summer would be dry, but--Mercy me!--ain't never seen the like of this.  How's a Pdog 'sposed to live?  Think all my fur's fallin' out.

We got dogs in this little village that're packing up and hitchin' rides to Mexico where it's cool.  Gettin' some Pdog sombreros and serapes and learnin' how to yip and hollar in Spanish.  Emmigratin', don't you know? And just the other day, I seen this feller comin' down the road all red-like and with horns, forked tail and pitch fork.  Said he was plannin' an annex on Hell and this Okie country felt about right.

Now, I know you two-legged critters are all exercised about whether we got global warming or not and, if we do,  whether it's ol' Ma Earth in cahoots with that dern sun or you all that's doin' it, and I got me an opinion on that, but I'll just let you folks fight it out amongst you, 'cause I'm here to tell you that I don't think we got a chance of puttin' the brakes on this, whoever or whatever got it started.

There ain't nothin' for an ol' prairie dog to eat but cracklin' corn and dry grass.  I've got so thin, I can shimmy down snake holes.  We had no pups this spring and Mama Pdog is surly and downright unfriendly, so I 'spect there'll be no pups next year neither.  Hard times hereabouts, yessir.

But I been diggin' in red dirt a lot of years, and I can tell you that the grand thing about this ol' state is that there's not nothing alive, two-legged or four, that can tell you what tomorrow's gonna look like.  The fires may get us for sure, or the rain may come again and give us sweet grass to fill our shriveled up little bellies.  Don't you never count us out.  Not so long as a one of us draws breath.

This ol' Pdog ain't goin' nowheres.  See you next spring.