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Here's the poop. Those wiseguys at King Pup take me for a spin every lunchtime and in return I agree to cast a beady eye over the latest dog related developments and churn out a few words for the perusal of any dog enthusiasts in earshot. It is I feel a quite satisfactory arrangement for the time being and one that I fully intend to maintain until such a time as they've had enough of me, or I become blog-tired and decide to let sleeping blogs lie - whichever comes sooner.

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Hang Eight (Claws That Is)

June 22nd, 2009

Note to taxonomists: Californian dogs do not belong to the same species as New York Dogs. To me, getting wet means one thing and one thing only - a $100 grooming bill. If you should see me 30 yards off the coast of Imperial Beach standing knees-a-tremble on a slippery surfboard waiting for an ominous looking swell to launch me precariously back to shore, surrounded by sharks, jellyfish and god-knows-what then please taser me, put me in a crate and ship me back to Manhattan as I have quite obviously lost the ability to distinguish up from down.

The only board I’ve ever taken to the beach was of the snakes and ladders variety and the only wave I’ve ever ridden was the flashing collar craze of 2004. I don’t know who these Californian dogs think they’re kidding with this nonsense but it certainly isn’t me. Lassie will be spinning in her grave.

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