Today is an important day in my regular weekly schedule: Spa Day. Of course, I see my stylist every week for a bath and blow-dry. A guy needs to keep himself freshly manscaped at all times, am I right? Apparently, I'm alone in my personal hygiene philosophy because I get strange looks at the dog park. Those baboons wouldn't know the difference between a proper conditioner and their own drool so I'm comfortable in my superiority.
My human, on the other hand, is always encouraging me to "go play" and to "run with the other dogs." Puhlease. I wouldn't debase myself by running through dirt and god forbid, mud, just to "fit in." I am perfectly fine enjoying a light afternoon breeze lying on top of the picnic table where I belong.
And can I just say, Boxers? Please do us all a favor and carry a proper handkerchief with you to keep your drool under control. Nothing ruins my day more than to get home to find dried drool all over the top of my head. Frankly, I find it offensive and completely uncalled for.
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