Danny and Andrew Guest Post

My name is Andrew Joyce and I write books
for a living. 



Serenity has been kind enough to allow me a little space on her
blog to promote my new novel
RESOLUTION: Huck Finn’s Greatest Adventure.
I think it’s a good book, but what do I know? Anyway, I’m kinda shy about
tooting my own horn. So I think I’ll turn things over to my dog Danny—Danny the
Dog—to toot it for me. He always has an attitude and usually does not speak
highly of me. But please understand that we co-exist as the old Soviet Union
and the United States once co-existed. We tolerate each other. So without
further ado, here’s Danny.


Andrew
took me away from chasing cars (so much fun) to help him out here. For a person
who works with words for a living, he has very little to say in real life. He
wants me to tout his book for him, but I don’t think I will. Instead, I think
I’ll tell you a little about how Andrew and I co-exist (to use his word).


Good morning, dog fans. It is I, Danny the
Dog . . . here to make your humdrum lives bearable with one of my accounts of
life with Andrew. He takes a lot of looking after and he can be a pawful at
times. It also takes a lot training to get him to obey properly. So without
further delay, here’s my narrative.


Those of you who know me know of my
affinity for hot dogs. Yummy! And what you should also know—if you were paying
attention—is that Andrew gave me a hot dog every morning after I had taken him
for his walk. As I have stated, yummy! But a dog has to try out new things, so
a while back I stopped eating said hot dogs. Well, not entirely. I’d eat half
of it and leave the rest on the dock. That was my way of telling Andrew I
thought it about time that we experiment with new cuisines.


For once, Andrew got the hint. He went to
the grocery store and came back with something he called “dog treats.” TREATS!
I wouldn’t give them to a cat! I suggested he read the label and see where they
were made. “China,” he said. I just stared at him until it dawned on him that
was the place that, a few years ago, sent over all that dog food that killed so
many pooches. “Okay,” says he. “Let me try again.” And off he went, back to the
supermarket.
This time he came back with sliced turkey.
Double yummy! He explained that all the dog-type treats were made in China, so
he had started looking in the meat aisle to see if there was anything I might
like. And lo and behold, he finally did something right—boy, do I love turkey!


Now this is the heart-rending part of the
story: My training of Andrew.
After turkey came into our lives, Andrew
would give me a slice after our morning walk. And I must admit, for a while, I was
happy with the single slice. But I was thinking, Why not see how far I can push it? Two slices would be better, three
even more better.


I started my campaign by letting loose
with a slight bark. Nothing extravagant, just something to let Andrew know that
I was displeased with the meager offering. It didn’t take long for him to get
the hint. So I was now getting two slices a day. Time to go to work for that
third slice.


But you want to know something? Andrew
ain’t as dumb as he looks. He started cutting the slices in half . . . like I
wouldn’t notice. Well, that set off the War of the Wills. Every morning, I
demanded more, and every morning Andrew would fight me until, just to shut me
up, I’d get another “slice.” Albeit they were now coming in half-slices, but
those half-slices do add up.
So anyway, here we are months down the
road. I’ve gotten Andrew up to five slices, or half-slices if you will, and
sometimes, if I really push it, I get a sixth slice. I must admit, when Andrew
tells me that I am a royal pain in his butt, he has a point. I will not stop my
“demand barking” until I’ve gotten as much as I can get from the old guy.


But this morning, I think I might have
pushed it too far. Andrew was at his computer waiting for someone to email him.
No one ever does, but hope springs eternal—I guess. Anyway, I was angling for a
seventh slice when he turned to me and said. “What’s wrong with you? You’ve got
it made. I wait on you hand and foot. You’ve got complete healthcare—medical and dental. I take you up to the Tiki
hut every night so that everyone can make a big deal about the famous Danny the
Dog. For a lowly cur, you’ve got it made! Can’t you just leave it at six
slices?”
Boy, was he hot under the collar. And did
you notice that he called me “a lowly cur”?
There we stood. Eye to eye (sort of). This
was going to be the defining confrontation in our relationship. This contest of
wills would determine who would henceforth run the household. The seconds
ticked by, then the seconds turned into minutes. Neither of us giving ground,
neither of us giving quarter to the other.


Then came the moment of destiny. When the
history of Danny the Dog is written, students will be taught that this was when
Danny the Dog came into his own.
Andrew stood, and with tears in his eyes
because of his defeat, gave me a seventh slice of turkey.
That’s
about it for now. I think I’ll turn the podium back over to Andrew.
Oh
yeah, I almost forgot—go out and buy Andrew’s
new book and make the
old guy happy.




This is Andrew again. On behalf of Danny
and myself, I would like to thank Serenity for having us over. It’s been a real
pleasure.

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