Sunday, August 22, 2010
Also feel free to friend my mom on facebook:
Danielle Frank Photography
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Anyway, I'm sure you're all wondering what's been new with me.
I think I mentioned it before, but I have a restaurant in my home town. We're having our Grand Open and naturally my unsupportive parents haven't even gone yet. Jerks. In case you're unaware of my "Open" reference (because clearly you haven't been paying enough attention to me either), please refer here: My Open's...
Grandpa let me on the couch when I visited him. That's right. I rule.
One of the stupid puppies threw up all over my back. And yet I get yelled at for puking near the front door. At least I try to make it outside in time.
Mom made me stamp some clay to put on that fake tree that arrives every year around this time, and then tried to pick my hair out of it.
Mom yells at me daily when I stick my head in the diaper (or as I like to say "delicious") pail. I don't understand what her problem is. Smells are my thing. It's what I do. And given the opportunity, I'm gonna roll in it.
Grandma still has that stupid cat.
I'm working on my Christmas list. Obviously ham is #1.
And quite possibly my best news, I've submitted a suggestion for Dove promises. You know, those theobromine death traps that humans eat with the stupid sayings in the wrappers...Anyway, I've suggested the following: "To open or not to open, there is no question." Be on the lookout, kamikaze Dove eaters. And if you still haven't read my open reference and don't understand the double meaning, I refer you to the link above.
Now if you'll excuse me, I see an unattended used burp cloth with my name on it.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
The humans call them "diapers," I call them delicious. Mmmm.
The puppies are alright. I'll allow them to stay I guess. They have all sorts of delightful smells and I sniff them quite frequently, just to make sure everything is ok. I also make sure I'm a part of each feeding time, bath time and "diaper" time, of course.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Anyway, a long time ago (ruffly 21 years ago...get it..."ruffly"...anyway) I lived at Grandpa's - so I guess I'm okay with it. He digs me, even though he doesn't always admit it. He's under the incredibly stupid impression that I won't be sleeping in his room, but I'll show him who's boss.
I'm already mentally planning my trip. I'm thinking of going back to my old antics - the ones he loved so much when I lived there. They included:
- Waltzing into the bathroom during shower time and stealing the paper that hangs on the wall while Grandpa yells at me not to. Now really? Why would you store that delicious paper on the wall if you didn't expect me to grab it? And another thing - if you didn't want to invite me into the bathroom while you shower, maybe you should consider closing the door. But I guess that wouldn't really keep me out - I have a way with doors. Anyway, several times I sped into the bathroom and yanked the paper off the wall and carried it through the house where I proceeded to shred it into tiny little bits. What fun! I can't wait to do that again!
- Digging a massive hole - that was perhaps my all time favorite. He put me outside on a "dog run" and stayed inside "working." During that time I was forced to entertain myself. So, doing what any good pig would do, I found a good smell, sniffed and scratched to get closer to the smell. When Grandpa finally returned I had constructed my masterpiece. A giant dirt hole - ruffly 4 bassets long by 3 bassets high (somewhere around 10 feet by 3 feet, in human terms). Grandpa didn't appreciate my handiness, but let me tell you, it was a thing of beauty. So cool on a nice hot day and so inviting! But he complained...something about recently redoing the lawn or something. I don't know, I wasn't really listening. I was too busy soaking in the wonder of my artwork.
- Gassing him out of the house. Again, another favorite past time of mine. I love following Grandpa around the house. We have contests, but I always win. I start off by forcing myself under his desk and silently PFFFFTTTTING under it. PFFFFTTTTING is the proper term for dispensing basset gas. Anyway, after a few of these usually Grandpa gets "disgusted" and goes upstairs. So, naturally, being the champion that I am, I follow him and continue to PFFFFTTTT where-ever he goes. No where is safe. Nothing is sacred. You might think you have a chance, Grandpa - but I will always defeat you. Usually, this ends by Grandpa getting so "disgusted" that he "has to leave the house." That's right. I win.
And once I'm returned to my home I'll have to seek revenge on Mom and Dad, because really, I don't understand why they feel the need to ship me off. What have I done? And why am I not
"allowed" in the "hospital" anyway? If Mom would suck it up and just have the puppies in a corner with some newspaper I could stay home. But instead, they shall fear the basset wrath that is Baxter.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
God, Mom is SO annoying. I hate when she whips out her camera - so here I am, giving her my usual side eye. Stupid Mom.
What you can't see is that Dad is once again playing his stupid game. The one that keeps saying: "Release the hounds!" over and over again. Personally, I think it's a bit hypocritical since I've begged to be released several times and am always denied. I mean really. Why can't I just run free all over the neighborhood? There are smells to sniff and sticks to poop on. And instead, I'm confined to that stupid leash. I mean, if Dad really wanted to release the hounds he could simply open the front door.
Dad, this is what I think of you and your stupid game.
::rolls eyes at Dad::
See that? That's my giant beer on the table. It's my only source of entertainment during this boring time.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Seriously - what the F? I am the king around here. My parents do and say what I want. I'm not going to sit idly by and allow for not one, but two puppies to start bossing them around. That's my job. Jerks.
The good news is that these puppies come with lots of little socks and toys. I LOVE socks and toys! They better get on my good side, and pronto. That's right. Baxter and the Babies.
I'll have to teach them the right way to wake Mom and Dad up in the morning and how to poop in the woods. Soon, I will have an army against my parents.
Coming soon: I've opened my own restaurant. Stay tuned for details.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
A few nights ago I was casually sleeping in my new room. The humans call it a bathroom. I call it mine. I recently discovered the soft, fluffy bathmat and have claimed ownership. Anyway, so there I am, sleeping away when all of the sudden Mom waddles in, turns on the lights and starts doing her thing. I mean what the hell, Mom? It's the middle of the night! What the F? Eventually she looks over at me like she's surprised to see me there. Hello? It's my room! So I give her the squintiest basset look I can muster at 3:00 am. Then I make sure she has to bend around me to use the sink, since clearly my space is directly in front of the sink. And I'm not moving. It's too early for this crap.
A few days after that Dad gets up to that incessant, nagging ringing. (And they wonder why I eat phone batteries?) Naturally, I was in my room. So, Dad meanders towards my room, and not wanting to deal with him keeping me up, I saunter out of my room to that inferior "dog bed" they keep for me. Hrmph! Don't they know I need my sleep? Can't they find somewhere else to do this? I only have one room! (Well, at a time, anyway).
And then there was this morning. Mass chaos and doom occurred last night in the form of rain, so naturally I decided I'd be safest in my room (since my jerky parents don't let me sleep on "their" bed). Again, Dad barges in like he owns the place and I saunter out. Luckily for me, Dad wasn't fully with it and forgot to latch the door. So I plowed my way in. Well, sort of. Until Dad started closing the door in my face. Apparently he needed his "privacy." Again, what the F? What is this "privacy?" Don't they know that these things should be done out in the woods and with an audience?
So, Mom, Dad - if you're reading this. Get you're own room - this ones mine. I put my paw down!
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
PS - Grandma, I need a bath.....and a foot massage.
Friday, May 22, 2009
(And for those of you wondering, the bumps turned out to be nothing. I'm fine. I could have told them that.)
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Stupid Werebasset. He'll get his. I mean, it's one thing to disrupt my Mom and Dad. I mean, what do they need sleep for? It's not like they work or anything. Not the way I work anyway. I mean, I have long days of circling on my bed, deciding where to poop, chasing my tail, hiding my toys behind the couch...the list goes on. I need my beauty rest.
So, if you're wondering why I haven't been updating, blame the Werebasset for interrupting my slumber. Or my stupid Dad for breaking my laptop.
I'll get you, Werebasset!
(Stayed tuned for why I hate Mom, part: 582)
Friday, April 10, 2009
So far, it's been a pretty good day. My 'rents are off today - it's about time they had the day off for my birthday. I mean, come on - this is important here. It's my birthday, it should be a national holiday. It's about time it was recognized. I heard something about it being "Good Friday." Of course it's good. It's Friday, which by default is good. And, you know, it's also the second coming of me, Baxter. Right?
Anyway, the day started off pretty good. I slept in today - no annoying beeping by beep clocks in the wee hours of the morning. Then I went out with Dad to poop on some sticks and had breakfast.
Also, my parents just went shopping. I can only assume that it was for my birthday presents. I noticed they came home with some flat ham (or "ham steaks") so that means I'm getting ham for dinner! Yay! I love ham. Birthday Ham is right up there with Christmas Ham, and we all know how I feel about Christmas Ham.
So, I'm assuming I'll get a birthday cake to commemorate this joyous occasion. That will be later though, and, unfortunately, will probably include some humiliating photos.
So - it's my party and I'll have Ham if I want to.
So, honor me. Here are some shots, then and now:
I'm still using these bowls:
My former favorite way to sleep:
And, now (today):
PS - I can't believe Grandma hasn't even called to wish me a Happy Birthday. Stupid Grandma.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
So anyway, back to the indoor sticks. Apparently, they were going to have a "fire." Yea, it's kinda nice. It's warm and toasty, but I'm more interested in the sticks.
So, I found my favorite. A nice, beautiful stick (a little longer than a basset). So, doing what any good pig would do, I stole it. I munched it (mmmm....tasty!). And then I carried it upstairs to my favorite munching spot. See?
Then, the unthinkable happened. Dad stole my stick and put it in the fire place. Next thing I knew, my favorite stick was nothing but crumbs. Stupid Dad.
But then, this morning after my breakfast I remembered that they didn't use all the sticks last night. There were still 3 left! Sure, they were about a basset and a half long each, but who cares? I love indoor sticks!
So, I stole another one. From the bottom of the pile, naturally. So, while Mom and Dad were still in bed I rummaged through the stick pile and selected my favorite. Yea, I dropped it a few times, but finally managed to carry it up the 13 stairs to their room. Success!!! ::munch, munch, munch::
Then I decided it wasn't actually my favorite stick, so I needed to get the other one. This was was more of a struggle, but worth the fight. So, I dragged that one upstairs too. Now I had TWO sticks upstairs! Yay!
Then Mom and Dad decided it was a bad idea for me to be eating sticks and stole them away from me. Jerks.
Even worse - they hid them! How could they? And then they broke out the vacuum so I don't even have crumbs to eat. I hate the vacuum!
Oh well. The next stick that comes into this house is mine.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
I tried looking out of the window to see what was making all the noise. It was a friggin' tree basset. It looked kind of like this:
Next time that a-hole wakes me up, it will be a little like this:
I swear to christ if that f#$%ing tree basset wakes me up one more time, I will shank him.
Anyways, aside from that, life is good. I chased Rufus today and I have crapped about 4 times and it is only 1:15ish.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Really Mom? Really? Was it truly necessary to attack me with the toothbrush and awful minty-fresh paste? I was working so hard on that nice garbage aroma that exuded from my mouth. And now - it's barely noticeable. How depressing. All that hard work...
I mean, it's not like she doesn't know how much I hate the toothbrush. I back away, slapping my gums in disgust. I swear, if that stupid thing wasn't stored so high up out of my reach, I'd destroy him and his minty-fresh taste.