The following story is fictitious and has been enhanced for dramatic purposes. Any resemblance to people or animals, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The staff writers who came up with this shall also remain nameless, which is better than unemployed.
The tension held the crowd silent. I moved one step toward the four sheep and it was too much for those wooly, pea-brained animals.
They broke for the opposite side of the field, and I dashed around behind them and brought them back toward the pen.
Jake, my owner, held the gate open, as I slowly pushed the sheep closer to the opening.
They moved in and turned to face me, as I stared them down and held them still while Jake closed the gate.
The roar of that Wisconsin crowd could have been heard back in Howard Lake, my hometown.
This was the third year in a row that I had won the biggest sheepdog trial in the country.
I didn't know that was to be my last appearance as "Flash, the wonder dog."
Modesty is not one of my greatest assets, but can you blame me? I have been the talk of the morning coffee drinkers in this town since I was a pup.
My picture was in the big papers every year. I won every award a sheep dog could get.
Now as I sit scratching that itch right behind my ear, Jake said, "The move will do him good. He isn't getting any younger."
He pats my side and I'm thinking, "Who's not getting any younger?"
Jake explained, "We're taking you and buying a small sheep ranch in New Mexico. We've had enough of this cold and snow."
The next weeks were a flurry of excitement, as the sheep were sold and everything was packed into a big orange truck.
I got stepped on so many times, I finally started sulking in the empty barn. At least I could catch a few mice and chase the cats.
I guess I was supposed to ride with the furniture, but when they tried to stuff me into that white plastic box, I braced all four feet against the sides.
They gave up when I started screaming so loud the neighbors at the next farm called to see what was going on.
It is better here on the front seat. I can see out, and if Jake's wife scoots over far enough toward the door, I can lie down. Sometimes I have to give her a little thump with my hind leg.
She complains so much. I'd like to see her run around 300 sheep and make them behave. Let her ride in that plastic box!
Well, it was a long trip, but we are finally here. There is not a flake of snow anywhere.
I think the 25 sheep are just busy work for me. This isn't really a ranch; it has a swimming pool.
Of course, a dip now and then is nice. But the best part is the horse manure. Num . . . tastes just like chicken. I'm a lucky dog, lucky dog.
Now, Toots, just climb up in that lounge chair and lap up some of that beer in the glass. She'll never know.
For a poodle, you're pretty cute. Did I tell you about all the girls I used to see? Well, that's all over now. I'm ready to settle down and raise a litter.
How do I feel about cats? I love them . . . they taste
just like chicken.