Humph.

She decided to make up a blog to practice her skills, and she dragged us into it. Honestly, as if making us wait for crunchies until the doorflap is locked isn't bad enough.

Oh well, we're here now.

I'm Padge, apparently, and I'm lying at the floor at her feet, hoping that if she looks down at me I can roll and look cute enough to get some fresh crunchies. Problem is, she'll probably put that wet slop in my bowl. Ugh. That stuff is for kids like Pooter.

I'm Pooter, and I wish I wasn't. What a crap name to give someone as intelligent as me. I'm sitting on the spare office chair behind her, in the classic Roast Chicken pose, hoping to remind her that I need feeding. I hope she doesn't put out more crunchies. I yearn for some nice salmon & chicken, or something soft and succulent. Look at that stupid cat. Now he's copying me, sitting like a chicken. Sigh.

We know what she's doing. She's making us out to have 'personality types'. The man is worse. He gives us funny voices. Totally undignified. He's not home yet. I wonder where he is and if he'll feed us as he comes in?

Oh, don't mind us. It's been a bad mood day. try again tomorrow, you might get some sweetness and light out of us. But only if we're fed.