The Beefy Snack Club
Italian Greyhounds, puppies, dogs, adventures, thoughts, issues
Bummer, I’m in the doghouse. I can’t believe that I got detention for something I didn’t do. I didn’t participate in the food fight so I get sentenced for being a dog with a funny bone?
“I’m innocent, I tell ya,” I groused to Petey, a muscular boxer that was seated next to me. He got caught bringing a flea circus to class. They got loose and everyone had to go to the nurse for a flea dip. “I’m innocent!”
“Shush Louie,” he whispered back. “Everyone here is innocent. Everyone has a story.”
I was surrounded by an eclectic group in a stuffy library. Of course there was Gregio listening to a Rolling Stone tune on his Nano contraband. He flashed it at me and it was Can’t You Hear Me Knocking. Dog’s got taste, I thought. Lexi was sitting next to me and Mea was across at another table.
I looked around some more and saw Luke, the Dog Squad jock. I think he got caught running someone’s collar up the flagpole or something. As I glanced around at the others, I started getting a weird John Hughes-déjà vu vibe.
“Have you ever seen ‘The Breakfast Club,’” I leaned over and whispered to Lexi. “You know, that 1980s flick?”
“Um no, because I was like born in this century,” she whispered back. “Stop talking to me.”
“We should form a club or something,” I shot back. “It should be about snacks. We can all agree on that.”
“You want another week of detention, Louie!,” Vice Principal Bluehorn snapped, breaking the room’s silence. He was supervising us and sitting up at the front behind a big desk. I swear that he was snorting steam which is pretty cool for a Pomeranian. I smiled at the image before answering.
“You’re on a short leash here, mister,” he barked. “Don’t make me come over there and put the harness on you.”
This is lame, I thought. I’m two years old. I can do what I want. Grown-ups just don’t get it and this Mr. Bluehorn is worst than a human. I should put my energy into writing a letter. A manifesto!
The day lumbered on and there were yawns of boredom from time to time. There are just so many times you can twiddle your paws. I was busy scribbling on a piece of paper and biting my tongue, deep in concentration.
The last bell of the day rang and everyone got up and stretched before heading to the door. As I passed Mr. Bluehorn’s desk, I turned in my manifesto. A masterpiece, I thought. Not Pulitzer Prize stuff but decent at the same time.
He accepted it while glaring at me. With a wink, I headed to the door to my friends who were waiting in the hallway. I glanced over my shoulder and saw him studying it. It read:
Dear Mr. Bluehorn:
I accept the fact that I had to sacrifice a whole day in detention for whatever it is that I did wrong. But I think you’re crazy to think of me as a dog whose bark is worse than his bite. Put simply, I walk on four paws like everyone else but you want to see me in even more simpler terms. I'm not one to get tangled in semantics and won't hang my tail in shame for being who I am. Just accept it.
The Beefy Snack Club, member
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