I got this thing about food. Any food, but my favorite is whatever Mom and Dad have on the table. So I do this deal where I stare at their plates of bootiful smelly food, while I’m sitting next to Dad just under the the table. You know just to keep an eye on it, in case any falls to the floor, and I hear those magic words, “Cleanup, Wayman!”. Anyhoo, Dad looks over at me and says that he thinks I’m looking through the table at his plate of whatever. So I think, of course I’m looking through the table, doesn’t everyone when they want to see what Dad is eating and not giving me any?
“Why, I believe that dog is looking right through the table.”, says Dad. Mom says “I warned you about Catahoulas.” This is the way it goes everytime, but I don’t see what the dang deal is. I can see what I need to see. And that is food! Sometimes I wonder why I hang around. Oh yeah, I love these guys. Somebody has to take care of them. They can’t even see through a thick fog… Ha!