George

Hi, they call me George.

Look, I didn’t choose the name, OK? It’s a long story, but since I’m here to set the record straight on some things my butler, Tom, has been saying about me, I’ll give you the 600-word version of my life.

Oh, and yes I called him my butler, not my owner. “Owner” is so 19th century, don’t you think? Look, he’s a good guy, this Tom. He keeps my house in order and gets me treats after supper. Heck, he even carries me to bed now. He’s a pretty good guy, but make no mistake — he’s a killer.

I used to think of him as my hero. I would even call him my master back in the day, but recently I discovered he’s been trying to kill me, so even though I have lots of appreciation for what the guy has done, he’s my valet, nothing more.

Sure, he “rescued” me and my sister after we were dumped as infants. That stretch we did at the pound was rough. All of those dogs barking and crying, lots of sad stories, great injustice.

So, this Tom guy and my mom (not my birth mom, but she’s my mom now) come in to look at the inmates. My and my sister are tiny and are in this huge pen. It was a pretty easy sell. They took us home on the spot.

After a short time, we got the lay of the land. They put us back in a cage at night and during the day, but I figured out a way to jump out of that little pen. 

About nine years ago, we moved lock, stock and barrel to Wisconsin. No more fenced in back yard, we ended up going on walks. Walks in the morning, walks at noon, walks before and after dinner. It was a relief when we moved again to a gated back yard. Finally, back to a life where we were no longer on forced marches.

Life was good. I got to sit where I wanted, got three square meals a day, treats after dinner. We even shared a bed with the guy. I figured it was the least I could do. He works hard so I can have a better life.

I’ll admit it — I adored the guy. I waited for him to come home, ate the food he provided, even mooched some of his food. I slept in his lap, even slept on my back like a human baby in his arm. I think he liked it, I played along. He’s a good guy.

Or so I thought. I had been gaining some weight and they took me to the doctor. I didn’t lose any body parts this time, thank goodness.

I started getting some deli sliced turkey in the morning before breakfast. I love deli sliced turkey. But one morning, it didn’t taste right. There was something in the meat I couldn’t identify. It happened again a couple of days later and I just spit it out.

I started sensing the same thing in my food. Something was up. Could it be the butler is trying to kill me?

Let’s just say I’m a lot more picky about what I eat now.

I don’t know what he’s been telling you, but this is the truth. It’s ALWAYS the butler.

As always, I welcome your comments. You can reach me by email at tstangl@theameryfreepress.com, telephone 715-268-8101 or write me at P.O. Box 424, Amery, WI, 54001.

Thanks for reading. I’ll keep in touch. Feel free to do the same. 

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