Times are bad down the Pdog hole, let me tell you. This dern drought has us in mighty tight straits. Not enough moisture in the green goodies for Mom Pdog to make milk for the babies. No babies at all this spring. Can't feed 'em. Old dogs givin' it up, goin' off to that great prairie dog town in the sky. It's bad. Bad as I've ever seen it.
We packed it in early last year, burrowed down deep and tried to sleep through it all. Too hot to cuss. Haven't had much to say for a time. Not feelin' very sociable, don't you know. I don't know where this weather is going, but I can tell you that I'd just as soon not be taking this ride.
I know you two legged critters are troubled about your wheat and your pastures and we're just worried along with you. Everybody down the Pdog hole is up early and out lookin' for green and watchin' for rain. Don't take much to make us happy. A nice spring storm would be a start. Leastwise, if we could get her without a blow.
I can feel it in my poor old bedraggled fur though, we've got bad storms comin' this year, maybe all the way to June. Mrs. Pdog tells me I'm just a pestiferous pessimist, but you mark my words, down deep, the earth is feelin' mighty strange.