A Tuesday Night Dance Party

So there I was, all ready to have a Barenaked Ladies dance party with Butter after dinner (we do things like that when Conservative Boy goes off to play men’s league on Tuesdays). At first, Butter was all about dancing like he usually is:


But once I cranked up the tunes and set down my wine glass to really get grooving (no, the glass of red wine had nothing to do with my urge to dance), Butter saw his new rawhide bone (you can see it above, lurking in the background, cackling). And you know what happened? This. Instead of dancing to “Old Apartment,” he did this. The gall.

(Man, Butter says. This bone looks deee-licious. Even if the last time I ate one was just before I let a bunch of guys feed me Doritos and Pizza Rolls and maybe even a bit of beer, and it all magically re-appeared on the carpet at 2 a.m. I can't help it I'm a party animal.)

(Yum, says Butter. Have I mentioned how much I love these bones?)

(I mean, these bones are really, really good. If I could fit two in mouth at the same time I would.)

(Dance party? What dance party?)

(Life couldn't possibly get any better than this. Am I in doggie heaven?)

So, needless to say, this attempt failed miserably. I ended up dancing around him while he ignored me. I don't think he would've moved even if there was a McCain sign available to pee on. I guess we’ll try again next Tuesday. After I hide all the bones.

(He's still chewing on this one by the way, as if the rest of the world has melted away and it's just Butter and his bone, together forever.)