“Hey, what did I win?”
“The photo contest. What did I win?”
Oh, that. Sorry, Iggy, you didn’t make the finals.
“What?! I didn’t?”
I’m afraid not.
“But… but… *sniffle* you mean nobody thought I was cute?”
What the — are you crying, Iggy?
“They thought I was ugly! They thought, ‘Ha, look at that stupid Schnauzer, thinking he can win a cute dog contest. He’s all wormy and stupid and hideous!’ *sniffle* I bet they laughed at my picture!”
Aw, Iggy, no! You got hundreds of votes!
“I bet they just felt sorry for me!”
Aw, hang on, let me open the crate. Come here, I’ll scratch your ears.
“No. Don’t want anyone scratching my ugly ears!”
Don’t be like that. Do you want a rib bone?
What about a chewy hedgehog? You love those.
Is there anything you do want? Your Kermit? Your squeaky chicken?
“*sniffle* I dunno.”
Come on, Iggy, name it.
If I can get it for you, I will. I hate seeing you so sad. A marrow bone? How about some jerky?
Okay, what do you want?
“HA! I WANT A POODLE! YEAH! YOU SAID ‘NAME IT’! I WANT A POODLE!”
You manipulative little–
“All perfumed and poofy-tailed–”
“Another Schnauzer, then?”
No more dogs.
“A girl Schnauzer would work! We can shave her!”
Nobody’s shaving any dogs, because we’re not getting any more dogs.
“She’d have to have her face shaved, in the very least. The mustache and beard would just make her look menopausal. Oh — no offense, Karen.”
Get back in the crate.