Augustus Mortimer, aged 10

Ah, back to ye olde picture post. You know, this thing really does keep me going. Gives me a topic to write about other than, say....how I'm going to wring Piglet's neck if he doesn't snap out of this evil phase he's going through. That would be the one in which he acts like a hormonal teenager laced with rage about 50% of the time. Wild moods swings, plus lots of hiccups, so I'm thinking maybe a growth spurt. I've just never seen such an emotional growth spurt. But enough of my struggles! Let's get to those pictures.

My long time imaginary blog friend The Mighty Favog has requested lots and lots of Gus. Now, I realize that Gus doesn't get nearly the action that he used to around here, but he is no less present than ever. Tonight, in fact, I had to call the emergency vet to confirm that Craisins are not poisonous as compared to their cousin Raisins. (They are not.)

So, I bring you Gus. Lots and lots of Gus. Also, what I imagine that he is saying in each shot:

"These kids. Hooligans. Common street trash. Can't appreciate a dog's right to rest. All the poking and the prodding. Give a dog a break. I'm exhausted."

"Something good has got to come my way. I'm not moving from this spot. Table scraps or excrement. I've got to get something here."

"Vet?! What vet? Whatchoo mean, vet? Whatchoo talkin' 'bout, Willis?"

"Ride in the car? What? Um, YES PLEASE!"

"Again? Seriously? You're as bad as they are."

"Maybe they won't recognize me...."

And that, friends, is about all that Gus does. His days are filled with relocations from couch to chair as he tries to escape those dastardly youth. And about four times a day, he takes a romp outside to poop in the middle of the grass (not the woods) and howl at the pack of hound dogs that reside in a dog pen back yonder through said woods. And then, he rests.