Prince Derp Dog

I find myself entertaining until I choose to talk about it.


I drew a picture of my dog in roughly twelve minutes.

This is Prince Indiana Buford Frankenstein.
He is a very swell dog, despite his lacking in man-parts. He's a nice dog except for his small head. And his badly done tail docking and horribly scarred dew claws (the man who owned the barn that Indy and his family were bred did it himself, and the litter was an accident.)

Man-Man just read over my shoulder and I got quite self-conscious.




Everything aside, I really could write an entire anthology, depicting all the Adventures of Indiana Frankenstein. I want to write his biography. Anyone who enters my house, will be annoyed by him. Anyone cooking at the stove, will be shouting "INDY. WE ARE EATING." (recently a new command has been issued, varying with 'Cooking' as opposed to 'eating'.) Anyone who sleeps in the beds of my house, will find this dog's small head resting gently on it BEGGING to lay under their blanket.

I'm at that silly point of writing that I just feel ...silly. My grammar skills are trash right now.

I had at least thirty-two anecdotes I could have shared, instead I default to my three year old BFF.

Fact: Indiana is listed as my son on Facebook. His father used to be Man-Man, until he either felt dumb over it or he wanted people to take him serious. Of course, no one takes anyone serious with a son named Frankenstein.

I've been told that I start doting on the dog for no reason. I've been told that the dog just needs to be standing there and I find something amusing about him. Nobody understands me.

No one.

So I suppose, if I have nothing else worth commentating on in my exciting life (I think it's exciting and filled with all the laughs in the world...whutevs) I can at least write about my dog.