Out of some warped impulse, I looked up the word "apparel". I much prefer the synonym "raiment" and hope in a subsequent panel KM will have Wilbur complain to Mary that his favorite foot raiment has been ruined by a dog that doesn't seem to understand English. Also, I love how Wilbur talks to Pierre as if the dog comprehends what he's saying. I'm sure Pierre is contrite over the loss of Wilbur's $80 foot raiment.
Later: Wilbur kicks Pierre out the door with a leash in his mouth. "Be back from the dog park by 8:00! I'm going to go purchase fresh foot apparel. Chicks love good foot apparel."
Ah, more verification that neither KM or June has ever ventured very far into the real world. A dog park spreading out over acres and acres of open fields and forests with no fence? Yup. Great idea. At least you wouldn't have to pick up after your dog. Once you let him off that leash, you'll never see him again.
Wilbur’s concept of a dog park was highly influenced by a painting he once saw in Chicago. In Seurat’s ‘Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grand Jatte’, fashionably attired ladies and gentlemen chat with aristocratic ennui, while small, well-behaved chiens waft daintily through the well-groomed lawns and paths. (I won’t lie, if you look carefully, there is a black lab sniffing a slice of pizza.)
So deluded Wil puts on his best summer suit and pale buff canvas shoes, and a beret which matches the one poor Pierre is forced to wear (it’s tied to his collar).
“C’mon, Pierre, let’s go for a leisurely stroll at the Santa Royale (Dog) Park.”
Things did not go well at the park. The smell was…doggy. The barking was loud and enthusiastic. There were tattooed men in sleeveless undershirts and cargo booty shorts. And tattooed women in booty shorts and sleeveless undershirts. And very scruffy non-pedigreed dogs of no breeding and no manners. And irregularly-spaced deposits of a substance dangerous for pale buff canvas shoes. LOOK OUT, WILBUR! Too late…
“Pierre, don’t challenge that Rottweiler for the affections of that female Chow!” Too late…Pierre has a new girlfriend.
“Pierre, don’t run around in circles through the mud puddle, chasing the other dogs.” “Pierre, don’t pull me down.” “Pierre, don’t rip your beret into shreds.” “Pierre, don’t rip MY beret into shreds.” “Pierre, don’t get into a fight with all the other dogs.”
Alas, too late. Wilbur sank wearily onto a park bench, doing his best to brush off his suit. Pierre kept playing with the other dogs, smiling his special French bulldog smile. The other dog owners gave Wilbur and his pup a round of applause. “Hey, Wil, you guys did great for newbies! Welcome to our world! And have a frosty beer from the community cooler bag.”
Wilbur smiled shyly. He was a real dog owner now. And he had an idea for a new story: ‘How I Survived a Wild Animal Attack.’
19 comments:
Could it be that Wilbur is showing empathy, or compassion for a living creature? What is happening? This is not the world I have come to know!
I hope Wilbur has another pair of foot apparel that’s suitable for the dog park.
Once the chicks catch sight of Wilbur’s stubble-bedecked legs, their extra energy will kick in and propel them in the opposite direction.
"Later" is maybe a tough concept even for a bilingual dog.
June really hates Wilbur, doesn’t she? We’re with you, June.
I hope Wilbur doesn’t decide to wear shorts to the dog park.
I wonder why Saul and Eve don't take their dogs to the dog park.
Out of some warped impulse, I looked up the word "apparel". I much prefer the synonym "raiment" and hope in a subsequent panel KM will have Wilbur complain to Mary that his favorite foot raiment has been ruined by a dog that doesn't seem to understand English. Also, I love how Wilbur talks to Pierre as if the dog comprehends what he's saying. I'm sure Pierre is contrite over the loss of Wilbur's $80 foot raiment.
Later:
Wilbur kicks Pierre out the door with a leash in his mouth.
"Be back from the dog park by 8:00! I'm going to go purchase fresh foot apparel. Chicks love good foot apparel."
If Dawn were here, he'd take her to the park instead. She is an IDIOT magnet.
I'm surprised Wilbur can afford $80 slippers. His only income is from Dear Wendy
Wilbur looks thinner while sitting down, wearing a bathrobe. His kneecaps are are remarkably odd-looking.
A festive out-of-season carol overheard being sung by Wilbur in the shower :
Deck the halls with boughs of holly
Fa la la, fa la la, dogs are good!
Impulse adoption can't be folly
Fa la la, la la la, yes it could!
Don we now our foot apparel
Fa la la, fa la la, in da hood
Chick magnetism? Surely Pierre'll
Fa la la, laa laa laaaa.... DOGS.. ARE... GOOOOOOD!!
(cue muffled agonized howling by Libby in Building C)
Does this mean Wilbur hasn't taken Pierre out for a walk yet?
THURSDAY
Wilbur arrives to find that there are no chicks at the dog park, only fat men. Curses, foiled again!
@Dr. Cameron, superbly done!
-- Scottie McW.
So I assume we are all waiting for the magnetic chicks to be hurtling through the dog park air Weelburwards?
Ah, more verification that neither KM or June has ever ventured very far into the real world. A dog park spreading out over acres and acres of open fields and forests with no fence? Yup. Great idea. At least you wouldn't have to pick up after your dog. Once you let him off that leash, you'll never see him again.
HelenClark
Wilbur’s concept of a dog park was highly influenced by a painting he once saw in Chicago. In Seurat’s ‘Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grand Jatte’, fashionably attired ladies and gentlemen chat with aristocratic ennui, while small, well-behaved chiens waft daintily through the well-groomed lawns and paths.
(I won’t lie, if you look carefully, there is a black lab sniffing a slice of pizza.)
So deluded Wil puts on his best summer suit and pale buff canvas shoes, and a beret which matches the one poor Pierre is forced to wear (it’s tied to his collar).
“C’mon, Pierre, let’s go for a leisurely stroll at the Santa Royale (Dog) Park.”
Things did not go well at the park. The smell was…doggy. The barking was loud and enthusiastic. There were tattooed men in sleeveless undershirts and cargo booty shorts. And tattooed women in booty shorts and sleeveless undershirts. And very scruffy non-pedigreed dogs of no breeding and no manners. And irregularly-spaced deposits of a substance dangerous for pale buff canvas shoes. LOOK OUT, WILBUR! Too late…
“Pierre, don’t challenge that Rottweiler for the affections of that female Chow!” Too late…Pierre has a new girlfriend.
“Pierre, don’t run around in circles through the mud puddle, chasing the other dogs.” “Pierre, don’t pull me down.” “Pierre, don’t rip your beret into shreds.” “Pierre, don’t rip MY beret into shreds.” “Pierre, don’t get into a fight with all the other dogs.”
Alas, too late. Wilbur sank wearily onto a park bench, doing his best to brush off his suit. Pierre kept playing with the other dogs, smiling his special French bulldog smile. The other dog owners gave Wilbur and his pup a round of applause. “Hey, Wil, you guys did great for newbies! Welcome to our world! And have a frosty beer from the community cooler bag.”
Wilbur smiled shyly. He was a real dog owner now. And he had an idea for a new story: ‘How I Survived a Wild Animal Attack.’
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Excellent prose, meg! If Pierre is half as active as your piece depicts, it's a good thing he has that spiked collar.
What a picture you’ve painted, meg! Marvelous!
I wonder if Wilbur’s wearing a matching spiked collar - he may have noticed Saul and Greta’s matching bow ties.
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