UNITED STATES—So often have I, Luna, been wrongly accused that I have burrowed now deep into the doggie underground. Take, for example, the incriminating hole in the bedroom screen the shape and size of a crash-test dummies’ head.
At long last, my nominal “master” has been disabused of the conviction that the opening was created by me, a speeding bullet of canine muscle and killer instinct bred in merry old England, when folks were much more fired up by blood sport than by Manchester United or kitschy artwork depicting pooches at a poker table. Dog fights were embraced by a large and zealous fan base, and needless to say, the wave of gambling revenues amassed and spread around were nothing to sneeze at.
Upon closer inspection of the opening left in the window screen, it is quite square. Thank heaven I splurged on a P.I. bloodhound if there is one thing that I, Luna am not, it is a blockhead. Therefore, ipso facto, and all that folderol, I am exonerated. I have it on good authority, my buddy and sparring partner, DeVille, that Chihuahua-Jack Russell mix, it was the offspring of my “master” who chose that entry method, due to a window left fortuitously ajar when faced by the daunting challenge of being locked out. Not only being locked out but faced as well with the added urgency to get into the loo.
The truth is out, and yet it’s no excuse for the grueling months of injustice, I, Luna, suffered due to the very human frailty of finding a locked door between oneself and one’s keys. Yes, exonerated. And there was no Emile Zola around to pen a J’Accuse…! in an open letter to The New York Times on my behalf.
Just before sallying forth, the grown child of my “master” let drop, “Lupe ate something today she shouldn’t have…”
The door shut behind her, and the sinister implications of the affaire Dreyfus were instantly dynamited to oblivion.
To be continued…
