They say it takes a new love to heal a broken heart. Good bye, vet tech. I’m all over this Pippa chic, now that her sister’s off the market.The Boss thinks I’ll just get a chin tickle and a pat on the head. But hey, I set my sights high, big guy. Imagine me with a personal masseuse, all chilled out in a cat fur-lined dog bed, visiting the palace for a night. The Boss has got to be jealous.
Easy for a weasel like me to weasel his way into the situation. I’m cute; that’s all it takes to score as a dog. I know the play.
Only one thing: She’s in England, and I’m in Florida. Takes a grand to fly me over there. The Boss gives me that look when I shinny up next to him and give him those puppy eyes. “Hell, no,” is all he says. “Unless I go, too.”
Maybe I start a letter writing campaign: “OK, your sister, the one that just got married to that balding prince guy (His brother looks like a lot more fun), she did it right with the dress. Simple. Clean. No need to do weird when you’re beautiful. You were pretty
balsy, too, dressed in white but what the heck, you’re fine and probably next for a ring anyway so why not practice some in the uniform.“Your sis is pretty good looking, perfect taste in clothes, simple kick-ass wedding dress. But I’d like to see her in some holey jeans, a loose fitting blouse, sitting sideways in a chair in a silly chic pub somewhere, hair down over one eye, but hey, don’t fault my fantasy.
“You, on the other hand, as the younger, I bet you got to fly under the radar with the parental units. Bet you’re a lot more fun. I mean you’d probably let me show you a thing or two ‘bout flingin’ rats and huntin’ mice. Macho stuff, then drink me under the table. Yeah, that’s a fantasy, too.
“Anyway, girlfriend, I gotta go and ply the Boss for a plane ticket.”
