Lord Krinklepuss Dozes

Let us not disturb the tenuous midday slumber of good ol' L.K. (as Lord Krinklepuss prefers to be known) as he dozes, for after all he gets such little rest. Always in popular demand, L.K. keeps a public schedule that would lay a plentiful pack of perkier pups low.

You might think that the benighted L.K. — as sixteenth lord of his lair, descendant of a long and regal line of fine British bulldogs, including King Krinkle, hero of Balmoral, sire of scores, mate of Linsey Lacemastiff, no less — would carry himself with all the ostentation and proprietary pomp of the Queen’s corgis. Well, then, you’d be mistaken, for L.K. likes nothing more than the simpler pleasures of bounding through the brush after a red rubber ball, methodically shredding your sneakers, wallowing in the dumpings of an overturned ash bin, or humping the occasional chair (or, more likely, visitor) leg. L.K. feels there’s nothing terribly dignified about being a dog — nor need there be!

It is, in fact, L.K.’s owners who put on the haughty airs and ostentatious style. Mistress Augretia Hythe-Boggin Duncasterblaster, third Lady Waddabydge, and her consort, Edgun Q. Poonswoggle, are perpetually placing their portly titled pet before Fleet Street, the Beeb, visiting heads of state, assorted dignitaries, obsequious subjects and the odd assorted busload of visiting German tourists. It’s collectively enough to stress even the calmest of canines.

So who can blame the Lord for catching a bit of needed shut-eye whenever he can? Throw the guy a bone, already!