Announcing my fifth annual contest. It’s time for the 2011 Peebles Award competition.
The winner will have a character named after him or her in my next novel.
For the chance to be immortalized — or perhaps mortalized — in Ransom River:
In 200 words or fewer, explain what’s going on in the photo above.
Deadline: 11:59 p.m. GMT, Monday October 17th.
Brevity gets bonus points. Making me laugh gets bonus points. Referencing blog topics and my fiction gets bonus points. You may enter as often as you wish. Previous winners may enter, on the understanding that if they win (no guarantee, because I want to encourage new entries), they will nominate a friend or relative to become a character in the new novel.
My decision will be megalomaniacal, capricious, and final. Two runners-up will each get a signed copy of one of my novels, or (if you’re willing to wait until next year) the new book.
Good luck.
(Photo credit: Dan Callister/Rex Features)
lying for a living 
That is a still from The Planet of the Apes for a flashback sequence. Originally there was to be climatic battle between the apes and the Capuchin gaucho cavalry, a possible alternate timeline where the monkeys came to rule and not the apes. Unfortunately the Studios and the South American Monkey union couldn’t come to an agreement, and those early shots were cut.
Jo Beckett, knowing that the river was rising and that she had to save the kids in the wrecked limo, grabbed a nearby steed, swung up into the saddle, and hollered, “Go get ’em, little dogey!” as she sped toward the rescue.
Mr. Peebles corsses the finish line to win Cousin Tater’s tots.
Or ‘crosses the line’ (do you take points off for typos?)
The race to get the newly released Evan Delaney novel was on – and Curious George had found an ingenious way of getting to the front of the queue…
Embracing his new career in puppy-rodeo, George W Bush got ready to lasso him some chicken wings
Rin Tin Tin had hit a new low having to have Dame Maggie Smith dressed as a cowboy riding his back.
If they gave an award for ‘Most Unlikely Harold and Maud’ they would have won first prize
One more coming up. More than 5 is probably greedy.
When they said they were remaking Brokeback Mountain, nobody figured on a monkey and a dog…
This one made me laugh…
Good start.
The Karelian Bear Dog surged forward. Peebles had trained it to sniff out Beanie Babies, and they were almost upon the provocatively dressed Dora the Explorer doll lying in the sand. Jesse lay over a rise, holding his breath. He hoped that the outfit Tater had provided from her miniatures lingerie line guaranteed Peebles’ attention. Peebles reined the dog to a halt, dismounted, and cautiously approached. Jesse grimaced as Peebles drew close to Dora. Just a bit closer. Now!
Jesse triggered the trap. A dart blew out of Dora’s mouth and struck Mr. Peebles in the neck. Peebles squeaked, jerked upright, then collapsed. Startled, his canine steed loped away. “Ferd!” Jesse called. Ferd ran from his own hiding space. “Oh, my god. Are you sure he’s going to be okay?!” “Stop worrying about that damned perverted monkey,” Jesse growled. “He’ll be fine. Now hurry and get the nanobot override he stole. Gabe will be rappelling down the side of the Transamerica Pyramid in less than five minutes with the transmitter and we need to get this to him to keep Evan from killing Jo.” Ferd was frozen. “Ferd! Now! Or you’ll never see next year’s Seven of Jo calendar . . . “
I’m shocked that a shirtless Vladimir Putin doesn’t appear in this story. It has everything else! 🙂
Dammit, Ron! You gave away a key bit from the following fifty words: Gabe is halfway down the Transamerica Pyramid, when we realize Vladimir Putin, shirtless, has also been rappelling down the side and now attacks Gabe. And Putin knows judo!!! And chess!!! Will Gabe survive?!? Will he hit back with some Aquinas? Can an appearance from Rocky and Bullwinkle be far behind?
Now that‘s what I’m talking about! (Although Putin rappelling shirtless is… um… rappulsive.)
Well, you wouldn’t want him Putin on the Ritz . . .
Perk of the job: highly-trained narcotics detection dog scores a whole noseload of the good stuff, but now he’s hallucinating, he’s got a monkey on his back.
Oh my lord! haoheohaoheoah!
Hahahaha, loved this.
Ohhhhhh groan……
1) Fido’s thinking he should’ve stayed at the pound.
2) Lassie’s cousin Lessie’s career didn’t turn out as well.
3) Rover will never forgive his parents for adopting a monkey brother.
4) “You only bruised Vick’s hand, man. I said, go for the nuts!”
LOVE # 2!
Indeed.
Madagascar Rodeo Riders Rock!
Rick Perry’s attempt to emulate famed Roughrider, Teddy Roosevelt, falls woefully short.
I’ve got nuthin’ here.
Justin Bieber reaches new heights.
Keep ’em coming, people.
In an uncharacteristic outburst Ferd cries, “Screw you Mr. Peebles–screw you and the dog you rode in on!”
haoheoaheohea!
My Name Is Earl Peebles:
To redeem myself for all my past transgressions, I am now attempting to do nothing but good. Above is a picture of me finding and returning Whiskey, the Kanan family dog. Of course, Whiskey looks a little different now, but I know you won’t let that bother you too much. Just let that top keep spinning.
“How much is that doh-ggy in the rodeo?
The one with chimp on his baaaaaack.
How much is that doh-ggy in the rodeo?
Oh I do hope that doggy’s off crack…”
“Alabama company turns rodeo lovers ashes into competitor nutrition.”
Two Alabama rodeo enthusiasts have devised a steaming send-off for avid rodeo fans. For a small fee, the pair will turn cremated ashes into pet-food, which is then fed to the animals on the morning of their ride. Nature running its course, the avid fan is then “deposited” (usually during the barrel race) onto the field.
“It’s about celebrating life,” states a young conservation officer. “We know how strange it sounds to people who aren’t comfortable around digestion, but for those who are, it’s not weird at all.”
er… no animals were harmed in the making of this boolshite. 😳
That is so good! haoheohaohe!
Mr. Peebles demonstrates the intricacies of herding lawn ornaments in the National Gnomeo Finals.
Introducing the very latest in biotechnology. This is a monkey-dog hybrid and we call it the “Mog”. (It was to be called the “Dogkey” owing to its tendency to favour the dog DNA. But as nine out of ten people hear this as “donkey”, we’ve decided to go with “Mog”.)
The “Mog” will become very popular in many circles we think, as it has advantages over either the dog, or the monkey. For instance the “Mog” has both speed and endurance but also the added benefit of opposable thumbs. So, not only will your “Mog” bring in the paper, but he will also turn the pages as you read!
In the early years, while George Lucas was still developing his cinematic vision, he scoured the Bay Area and Northern California, watching people and events for inspiration. After attending the Sheep Dog Trials at UC Davis’ annual spring Picnic Day campus open house, Lucas once got coffee at a small shop in San Francisco frequented by a nerdy man and his monkey.
The result was this napkin sketch that Lucas captioned: Luke and Land Speeder, Star Wars Episode 7: Revenge of the Peebles.
Every year on Pride weekend in the Castro, the crowd looked forward to the many parade participants wearing chaps and little else. But there was always one exception…
hoaheohaeoha!
Devolution.
Ferd apparently misunderstood when, after the successfully solving her latest case, Jo told him that he and Mr. Peebles should join her, Gabe, Evan, and Jesse in “puttin’ on the dog.”
Autumn realized she had been wrong about the identity of the Bad Cowboy all along . . .
Love it.
Hahahaha…
oh, good one. (I’d use an ! but I’m already way overdrawn at the ! bank)
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The “Hover-dog” is an ingenious new addition to the canine world. Piloted by a “Monkador” it can reach speeds of up to 40 mph.
The Hover-dog comes in various colours and sizes and you can accessorise with the very latest in Monkador fashion. (The Justin Bieber Chaps alone, come in eight vibrant new colours.)
See in store for specials and our easy payment options.
Giddiyup, I’m the Lone Ranger on a dog.
“What?! Timmy’s in the bullring?”
Sparky didn’t believe the consequences of his treat addiction were not just metaphorical.
The Transylvania Professional Bullrider’s Association discovered too late the perils of scheduling an event during a full moon.
There we go again. I go away for a few days, come back and find 50 entries already. Okay, time to flog the flagging brain cells….
I’m sitting here silently stroking my evil cat, reading the entries as they roll in. Excellent. Eeeeexcellllllent.
Round and round he rode. The horror was unending. There was just no out. Mr. Peebles was trapped for good in Garfield’s sandbox.
“Uh, does this hat make my Monkey look big?”
Mr. Peebles was tired of Ferd spanking the monkey so he hot wired the neighbor’s dog and hit the road.
(shameful. I’ll see myself out now.)
Ladies and Gentleman, Contest 2011 has officially begun. Dana Jean has… um… reset the bar. (Cue the limbo music ♪♫…)
Hahahahahahahaha…!
I just knew you would be the one to post next after mine… and that you wouldn’t be able to help yourself! Hahahahaha… good one, Deej.
In the interview, Meg told of how both she and The Husband had grown up in Southern California. While she plied the tar-covered shores of Goleta, he rousted about in the high dessert of China Lake.
What she didn’t say was that The Husband – whose real name she never revealed – had sneaked out of town in disguise after what he would only refer to as “some barnyard incidents.” When this photo was ultimately revealed on the Behind the Music episode about The Husband, Meg’s family was shocked, and her publishers and publicity people went into damage control mode…
(Make room in the penalty box, DJ…)
At the rodeo, Jo and Ferd finally discovered the meaning of the strange phrase, “get ‘whiplash’ riding ‘spot,'” which had been written on the inside of the miniature Justin chaps hidden underneath a gaggle of beanie babies . . .
Clearly it is a case of Ferd finally caving in to Mr. Peebles incessant whining, “Yes alright, you can have a My Pretty Pony.”
Bad News for David Letterman Fans
After years of bringing us “Stupid Pet Tricks” and insisting that “a trained monkey could do his job,” CBS has announced…
Dear Sir/Madam,
Please accept my action photo for your next printing of Wheaties – Breakfast of Capuchins! Being the generous soul that I am, I plan on sending 10% of my (net, after expenses) royalty payments to charity.
–Mr. Peebles
Peebles rode through the hot desert, an outlaw, managing to stay one step ahead of that meddlin’ bitch, Evan Delaney. His job as a “gorilla” fighter and “Bible-thumping cowboy from the remnant” required him to be a mischievous miscreant. From urinating on the head of Zambia’s president, Rupiah Banda, to leading a bloody coup against a band of war-like flying squirrels (led by the very resilient Rocky J. Squirrel), Peebles led a solitary life with his trusty steed, Whiskey. He knew his screen siren mother, Fay Wray, and his father, Kong (misunderstood island God), would never forgive his career change, but he just never liked being introduced as, “My son, the therapy monkey–a graduate from Harvard Medical School.”
The day’s ride had been long and dry. The bones of a robot and horse lay side-by-side and a snake slithered in and out of the bones and bare wires, rattling its ass in the air. Peebles bared his teeth and flung poo at the critter with deadly accuracy. He turned Whiskey towards China Lake, the Westworld of California.
Nice…. 🙂
And just so you all know, there is a lot I would correct here–and I’m itchin’ to do so–but I’m going to leave it alone.
Maybe.
Peebles rode through the hot desert, an outlaw, managing to stay one step ahead of that meddlin’ bitch Evan Delaney. His job as a “gorilla” fighter and “Bible-thumping cowboy from the remnant” required him to be a mischievous miscreant. From urinating on the head of Zambia’s president, Rupiah Banda, to leading a bloody coup against a band of war-like flying squirrels (led by the very resilient Rocky J. Squirrel), Peebles lived a solitary life with his trusty steed, Whiskey.
He knew his screen siren mother, Fay Wray, and his father, Kong (misunderstood island God), would never forgive his career change. But, he just never liked being introduced as, “My son, the therapy monkey–a graduate from Harvard Medical School.”
The day’s ride had been long and dry. The skeletal remains of a robot and horse lay side-by-side and a snake slithered in and out of the bones and exposed wires, rattling its ass in the air. Peebles bared his teeth and flung poo at the critter with deadly accuracy. He turned Whiskey towards China Lake, the Westworld of California.
(aaah, I feel so much better.)
Excellent.
“Here we see a spectacular tackle from the Welsh half-back on the New Zealand captain during the final match of the Rugby World Cup.”
(Ever hopeful….)
Prince Charming, as promised in the marriage vows, rode ventre à terre to Cinderella’s deathbed, hoping against hope his trusty steed Thunderer would get him there in time. Sadly, as he approached the castle gates, midnight struck and the magic faded away, returning them both to their pre-enchantment form.
After the crippling expenses of The Wedding, the Queen insisted on severe cutbacks throughout the family exchequer. However, the savings realised on reducing Charles’s exhorbitant polo pony bills were more than offset by the cost of acquiring down-sized riders.
High Noon:
The bars doors swayed back and forth on their rusted hinges, squeaking a ancient hello, goodbye, hello, goodbye with every swing.
Peebles hippity hopped –the way monkeys do– out to the middle of the street. He fumbled his gun and was cut down before he could hoot a “draw.”
Chunks of Peebles clung to every hooker on the street–he was reduced to Rhesus pieces.
Gives new meaning to the phrase, “Breakfast of Capuchins.”
In the immortal words of Peter Gabriel: “Watch the monkey get hurt, monkey.” And if a Frankenstein wandered into the west and sewed Peebles back together, he could “shock the monkey to life.” Why does Mr. Peebles lend himself so readily to time travel and absurdist literary pastiche? Paging Dr. Conan T. Barbarian, specialist in postmodern theory and bs…
Are you dissing me here? Is this a dis? Hey! This is edge-of-your-seat writing with an amazing plot line. What we need to know is, WHY was Peebles in this predicament? WHO shot him down? cue the music…
I was 5 and he was 6
we rode on horses made of sticks
He wore black and I wore white
He would always win the fight
BANG! BANG! He shot me down
BANG! BANG! I hit the ground
BANG! BANG! That awful sound
BANG! BANG! My Peebles shot me dowwwwnnnn.
😉 I’m just goofin’ on ya Jason.
Right now, all I can picture is Mr. Peebles with a David Carradine ponytail and I’m . . . disturbed. And when you consider this image in light of the beanie babies sex addiction that Peebles has *not* *had* *treatment* for yet . . . well, I just shudder to think how it will all end.
And because you all knew I would eventually do this, given my anal nature:
High Noon:
The bar’s doors swayed back and forth on their rusted hinges, squeaking an ancient hello, goodbye, hello, goodbye with every swing.
Peebles hippity hopped–the way monkeys do–out to the middle of the dirt road. He fumbled his gun and was cut down before he could hoot a “draw.”
Chunks of Peebles clung to every hooker on the weathered boardwalk–he was reduced to Rhesus pieces.
NOW the contest has officially started. I’ve come and corrected my entry. It’s better. I feel better now. haoheaoheohaohea! My kid was rushing me!
I’m not sure Rhesus Pieces is ape-propriate, but it’s damned funny!!! (At least that’s the way it’s simian to me.)
hoaheohoaha! Ron!
I loved yer “Rhesus Pieces”, good one!
(One of the Beta’s once sent me some of these–I nearly changed my screen-name, so delicious!)
One more time… (You know how people have OCD and they check the stove a babillion times? Well, I suffer with this when it comes to writing. Give me a break, are you going to make fun of someone with a handicap? I don’t THINK so.
High Noon:
The saloon’s doors swayed back and forth on their rusted hinges, creaking an ancient hello, goodbye, hello, goodbye with every swing.
Peebles hippity-hopped–the way monkeys do–out to the middle of the dirt road. He fumbled his gun and was cut down before he could hoot a “draw.”
Chunks of Peebles clung to every hooker on the weathered boardwalk–he was reduced to Rhesus pieces.
And now I’m taking the soap away from you and telling you your hands are sparkly clean. You may write new entries but this one has been scrubbed until it’s translucent. 🙂
“Peebles! Aruff…. you’re NOT Scottish–put some damned pants on under those chaps!”
hahaha!
“Me and you–my dog named Boo,
Travellin’ and livin’ off the land.
Me and you–my dog named Boo,
How I love bein’ a free sim-i-an.”
Oh God, is it the 17th yet? Somebody stop me….
My daughter is 8 years, in 3. grade and loves to write. She writes stories almost every day after school. I gave her the photo and told her to write something about it and this is what she came up with. I just corrected some minor spelling mistakes. Her english is good because she attends an International school here in Beijing. So she speaks danish, english and chinese and learns to write english, danish and chinese.
Here is her story:
I think that the monkey is on the dog because it is rescuing a person.
Or maybe it’s about to go home and change to his Halloween costume. And getting his bag for trick or treating. When he was done he went to meet his friends at the park. One of his friends was dressed as a dog. The other one was dressed as a monster and it frightened the dog so it ran as fast as it could from the monster. When the Halloween ended the dog ran home. The monkey was so exhausted after the party. He most got candies so he tried one and said ’’Um……um….well….I love it!!! And he was glad that Halloween was today! Next time on Halloween he knew what to do and that is not to meet others at parks but anywhere else. Or else one of them maybe will be dressed as a monster again so it’ll scare away the dog again. By Astrid Y.C. Have
Well done, I like it!
Very nice, Astrid (and Susanne)!
Wonderful… well done, Astrid!
“You tell ’em I’m comin’! And Hell’s comin’ with me, you hear! Hell’s! Comin’! With me!!!” – Mr. Peebles (Tombstone)
haoheohaohe!
So, who’s the huckleberry? Or at the very least, a strawberry.
Gah! What the…? There’s a monkey on my back?! Geez, where did he come from? Off damn monkey, I say, off!
@charmedchickJG
GEE! HAW! Dear God I left my equine to canine translator in my other chaps. How do you steer this thing?
🙂
“Ah! It’s just like riding a motorbike, you have to lean into the corner!”
“When the Lamb opened the second seal, I heard the second living creature say, ‘Come and see!’ Then . . . came . . . a fiery red . . . rider [who] was given power to take peace from the earth and to make men slay each other. . . .” Okay, so I took some liberties with the text. But Peebles as sign of the apocalypse . . . any arguments?
(Oh it’s me and i’ve been down yeah
got to get that monkey off my back)
The fortune teller looked into my eyballs
The wrinkles on her face about to crack
She said ‘ You best believe it,
You ain’t goin’ nowhere, unless you get that
Monkey Off your back’
I made believe the devil made me do it
I was the evil leader of the pack
You best believe I had it all and then I blew it
Feelin’ that fuckin’ Monkey On My Back
If you put it in a spoon man I would boot it
Some king whose mental house was just a shack
Where do you draw the line when all your friends are dyin’
You got to get that monkey off your back
Uh, uh, uh….
Your crystal ball is where you chase the dragon
She said, ‘now’ I bring me home his head inside a sack
But now you find your crystal balls are draggin’
Got to get that monkey off your back
— Aerosmith, Monkey on My Back.
“My baby takes the morning dog,
he works the nine-til-five mad slog.
He takes that puppy home again,
to find me waitin’ for him…”
(What? I’ve been eating chocolate and watching rugby.)
“And in tonight’s semi-final match we see (pictured below) Welsh flanker Sam Warburton performing an illegal “tip tackle” on the French winger Vincent Clerc.”
“The Dog in Black fled across the desert, and the poo-slinger… hitched a ride.”
Ah, so Mr. Peebles first name is Roland . . .
Roland Peebles of Gorillead…borne of Meg, pet of Ferd.
As Jo lay on the ground wrestling with Little Ricky, she looked over his shoulder and saw that the first of the Monkey Collie cybernetic hybrids designed in the bowels of China Lake’s military research facilities was bearing down upon her. Since Ferd had accidentally created a rift in reality with the creation of his own fully functional, artificially intelligent, katana-wielding, and unanticipatedly evil Seven of Jo-bot, Murphy’s Law had not only gone into overdrive: It had mutated and evolved into the writhing, tentacular force that now dominated their lives. Dolls had become possessed, evil schemes had been facilitated, and all those closest to Jo had been turned into living zombies controlled by her own evil borg counterpart. Jo had to destroy her. But first, she had to reduce Little Ricky to evil kindling and evade the Monkey Collies – which, when they sighted their prey, blew miniature horns modeled after those of Charlton Heston’s full-size pursuers in The Planet of the Apes. Couldn’t she ever just wake up in a nice frothy comedy? Or in a musical, singing ABBA . . . or would that be even more terrifying?
Hahahahaha, I was waiting for Ricky to pop up his creepy little head, nice one!
Mr. Peebles couldn’t make it to Wall Street so he decided to occupy his banker’s dog.
This is a shot of the All Blacks mascot running onto the field in preparation for the pre-match Haka.
(The red jacket is in homage to the recently fallen Welsh team.)
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“When I start out to find somebody… I find him. That’s why they pay me.”
Monkey and Dog zigged and zagged in an effort to avoid the falling turkeys. Dog’s eyes spoke volumes of how close they’d come to disaster.
But as the sun set on yet another Thanksgiving eve in Yellville, Arkansas–Monkey and Dog trotted home once again thankful for their God-given gifts of speed and agility.
the monkey knows if given an opportnity to pursue its dream of being a rodeo star he would be great at it. He has practiced every day for a number years but nobody but his buddy believes in him,. who has always encouraged the monkey in his dream. he would allow the monkey to use him as a horse since neither one of them had money to buy a horse. The dog has agreed to help his friend get to the near by town as there will be a rodeo and once his friend wins the rodeo and can get a real horse he will be taken serious and not be laught at and he can then be a role model for others who have what looks like a impossible dream to keep going and just believe in themselves and not give up till they have reached their dream
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Tiny Teresa rides in from the desert on a dog with no name, crying, “We’re Justin time, chaps. Here comes Sandy Claws.”
Hahahaha, that was good, Susan!
It was a dark and stormy night. Sparky was wandering the back alleys looking for trouble. He had had a very bad week. He used be a hero. He was a rodeo dog. He was a champion. Then it happened. The monkey that was his rider had an accident, he fell. He was injured. It was not a minor injury. He is still in the hospital. They don’t know if he will make it. Sparky just wants to get drunk and get in a fight.
There are not a lot if bars that will let him in anymore. They have had too many problems with his type. So he is stuck with the worse type of place. There is a monkey there. He is in the same boat. His dog had a bad injury. He didn’t make it. A drunk rodeo monkey and a drunk rodeo dog. What are the odds? They start talking, their stories are the same, can they come together and work together? Can they beat the odds and become champs again together? It’s a long shot…
Now that’s a shaggy-dog story.
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‘Twas the hour before judgment
And all through the blog
Not a creature was stirring,
Not even a “mog.”
“The entries were posted to the blog with great care,
In the hopes that The Meg would espy them there.
And as hour marched on and midnight drew near,
The blog-reading masses had no more to share…”
Too late, too late, the maiden cried. Ah, but for one last chance to call back the last 40 minutes.
Or….. wait. GMT! Then Daylight Savings might work in my favour. Or possibly way out of my favour. The moment I Submit, I’ll know….
Yes, there IS still time…. Think fast.
“The minions awaited Meg’s doom all aquiver:
Which of them would die in her tale, Ransom River?”
Even as a small child, Petite Arlette had had a secret desire to join the RCMP. Now, at last, with the height and weight restrictions finally relaxed, she saw her chance. Donning a red dress uniform and Mountie hat, she climbed aboard a suitable steed and rode proudly into town to the recruiting centre of the Royal Canadian Mounted Primates.
“Mama in her kerchief, on top of a dog,
Had monkeyed around through the dust and the smog.
On Peebles, on Ferd, On Whiplash, and others,
Which poster has tickled the Meg o’ Death’s druthers?”
And we’re done
Oh, hell! Alright…
“Alone with her iMac, and iPad, and iPhone,
Meg tried to decide who had made her not groan,
But laugh like a women on Jack and Mint, Juniors,
But time, it ran out, and not later, but sooners,
Who come from OK-ville, where Meg too had sprung,
And where, more than once, The Husband had sung.
But now I digress, and get off of the track,
It’s time to let go and, to Meg, give a crack
At trying to separate wheat from the chaff,
And choosing a winner at whom she did laugh
Most.”
“… and as midnight had struck over England this night,
The competitors put down their pens and they sighed.
Another competition had come and then gone,
So happy they were to have again played along…
And as Meg settled down for her night of slumber,
She thought she did hear in her blog distant thunder…
Of dogs and monkeys and rodeo gear,
Of horses and cowboys and Ho’s filled with beer….
and she thought to herself as sleep crept up close,
I should’ve taken a pill… hell a double-dose!
Anapests, aka poetic meth . . .
🙂 Jason started it….
(I’m sorry, it is always only a matter of time before Dr. Seuss makes an appearance in my writing. :oops:)
I was happy to have some spontaneously willing accomplices . . . 🙂
I tell ya, it’s like an addiction!
And “a pest” is what Meg used to call me in high school.
I’m with Flakes! This is all your fault, Jason. (And Dana Jean, too. She’s not here. Let’s blame her…)
Oh heck no, we’re not blaming her–she knows where I live!
Merry Contest to all, and to all a good night.
Thanks, everyone!
WHat? What happened here? Ron, why I oughtta….
Suffering from anterograde amnesia, Mr. Peebles had no idea how he’d gotten atop a runaway dog and not a post it note in sight to help.
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