No More Casting, Please.

Hey, I'm Pringles.  Guess my age.  Consider first the worldly, all-knowing, I-can-see-your-soul look in my eyes.  Consider the regal, debonair manner in which I present myself.  Consider the confident position of repose, open and relaxed. These are the qualities of a seasoned, mature, gentleman, yes?

HEY! Who put that there!  My American rescue mom, no doubt. That woman is incorrigible.  There, see, that's another trait of a refined gentleman: interesting vocabulary.  WOOF.  Oops.

Fine fine, I'll tell you the truth.  That woman will anyway if I don't.  I'm 16 months old.  I, however, have had a very grown-up life already, so I deserve to be treated like an adult, and with great reverence.  I wasn't born here, and I wasn't born the way you probably imagine when you think of puppies being born.  I was born in Spain, bred by and for hunters to be used as a hunting tool. We tool-dogs don't get to live indoors, don't get beds and blankies and cuddles and walkies or anything.

I was lucky.  I got to leave pretty young, and I survived.  Many of my friends did not.  But when I got left out on that strange road far away from home, my owner didn't want me to come back, (we podencos are pretty smart and good at finding our way around), so he broke my leg.  That way I couldn't chase his truck and follow him back home, or make my way back home later.

I don't know how long I was out there on my own trying to get by before some nice ladies found me. They spoke a funny language with a funny accent, but I didn't care because they carried me away and eventually my leg was healed.

Now I walk normally again.  And run.  And hug! Yep, I stand up on my back legs and wrap my front ones around you (if I like you a lot) and hug hug hug.  Sometimes, on really special days, I might even smile. 

My heart is healing pretty well too, though I will admit that this is a much longer road than the one I was left on back in Spain.  It's hard to trust again, but I am learning. I just don't want to get what my American rescue mom calls "heartbroken".   I don't know if that means someone could break my heart like they did my leg??  I hope not.  That would be terrible.  And how would they put a cast on it??

Well before I prattle on any further, let me share a few more photos . . .

Me in my cast (it's under there somewhere)

Me playing with my British rescue mom in Spain

Me with my Mousey in America

Me lounging on the couch in America

Me having my first beach walk in America


As you probably have ascertained by now, I'm a pretty sensitive guy who also is very loving.  I'm super-intelligent, usually quiet and calm (I do not want to discuss squirrels, thank you very much), and I have very good house manners.  (Ahem, I am told that in American lingo, the phrase is "potty trained.")  I'm pretty good on walks too, I've heard my people say.  That is because I simply adore my people.  If you earn my trust, if you deserve me, I will bond to you and adore you and be by your side forever.

I expect the same from you.

PS: That incorrigible woman insists that I reiterate that sentiment on her behalf as well.  And I quote: "Hellfire will rain down on anyone who harms or disappoints Mr. Pringles, so please, only the most loving, certain, forever adopters need apply."