Our resident dog-in-sheep's-clothing, Buster Brown, went for his spring haircut today. Here are the pictures of him from a week ago. I assure you he does have eyes. You just can't see them.
Poor dear, he looks morbidly obese in his winter coat. In fact, we were just discussing whether or not he needed to be put on a diet. We concluded we should wait and see what's left after we had him sheared.
In fact, I'm thinking if he needed to join a doggy witness protection program, he has a ready-made disguise. Can you even believe it's the same dog??? Which reminds me...Hey, Mom, remember that one time you got our dog shaved when we were kids and she looked so different that you thought it would be funny to tell us she got hit by a car while we were at school and you got us a new dog? Remember how we all cried and howled? That was mean! I was traumatized!
Unless, of course, it really was a different dog and you changed your story to stop us from howling and crying. Did our dog die or not? Now I'm confused. And still traumatized. Maybe this is why I feel compelled to rescue animals. It's all your fault, Mom! And in twenty more years, I'll call and apologize for this, after one of my children blames me for their neuroses! Nevermind, it's not your fault! Forget I ever said that!