Well, HI there! Pleased to meet you!
My name is Dixie, but you can call me
Mrs. Doo. Although sometimes I'll
answer to just plain Doo, or -- often--
Mrs. Dixie Doo-licious.
My Mama wanted me to introduce myself so that you wouldn't be taken by surprise when you come to visit her. Sometimes Peoples mistake me for the rug, since I usually camp out in the sitting room and don't move for hours and hours. But I'm here to tell you that meeting me should be an Event at Laughlin House. So here's how I would like for it to happen: You may kneel before me and rub my belly. You may watch me snore. In lieu of belly rubs, I will also accept ear pullin' or bum-scratchin'.
You might have guessed that I'm the real Lady of Laughlin House. In dog years I'm 91 years old, and I feel it in every one of my poor, aching, arthritic joints. I'm hard of hearing, m'eyes ain't what they used to be, and I'm just plain hongry (that's "hungry" with an "O") - all the time. My Mama says I'm pretty stubborn and set in my ways. But -- I mean... a lady needs a routine.
So because I'm 91 years old and have earned a right to complain a little bit now and then, I think it's time to get a few things off my chest (also quite scratch-able, mind you) about what's really goin' on around Laughlin House B&B.
You see, there's this room ... this little room that needs watchin'. It needs my undivided, laser-focused attention. It is the place where magical things happens. Where my daddy creates things out of thin air and makes my mouth water. The room with the smell-goody things that dance around in my dreams.
You know which place I'm talking about? The one where Breakfast comes from? That place is my favorite place in the whole wide world. And my horrible, rotten parents LOCK ME OUT of it. With a gate that has bars and everything. It's TERRIBLE. I'm in Purgatory!
All day long I stand [snooze] guard in front of this magic room. One eye on the gate (and the other rolling back in my head as I drift deeper into canine slumber), just staring into the kitchen, waiting for Mama or Daddy to open that gate and walk inside that wondrous little room. But they never let me in. Nev-ah. Just leave me hanging outside that jail-cell gate.
I mean ... c'mon, throw a dog a bone every now and then!
And don't get me started on breakfast time.
Because I. Love. Breakfast Time.
In fact, Mama and I do a song-and-dance number every morning when it's time to eat. If you walk past the window early enough in the morning, I'm sure you'll witness our happy dance routine. Mama looks a little crazy.
But ... at Second-Breakfast, when it's time for all the peoples (Mama and Daddy call them "Guests") to eat, my Mama and Daddy lock me out in the GARAGE. The nerve.
... And I'm such a sucker. I just let 'em do it. They always pull out those delectable little chewy morsels that are shaped like steaks and taste a little like meat and they watch me chase them into the garage and then they SHUT THE DOOR. I feel so ashamed. I fall for it every time ... Mama says it's because I beg for food at the table and offend everyone with my odiferous doggy breath and my squeaky nose.
I mean, wouldn't you? If your daddy made such fantastical meals as Savory Waffles Benedict or Banana-Stuffed French Toast? With BACON? and SAUSAGE?
But some of the Peoples who come through here are really nice. Don't tell Mama and Daddy, but some of them sneak me table scraps sometimes. (You know who you are. Look into my eyes. Now ... Feed the dog. Fffeeeeeeedddd the dog.)
Some Peoples really get it -- they know who runs the place. In fact, just last week a couple refused to leave until I was rescued from my garage prison so they could thank me for letting them stay here. I really liked those people. They had style. And I think if I could've worked on them a bit longer, they would've let me into the kitchen. Wouldn't you?
Dixie Doo OUT. ZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
