NOT THAT KIND OF LAMB!

Sheesh.

Hilarious.

Can we get some new writers and cartoonists for this strip? Please? These amateurs are making me look bad.

Anyway … let’s ignore this image and move on to the actual blog, starting below …

Okay.  This is my first blog in a while.  Been hard to find the time because I’m on the lam.  Always looking over my slim shoulder for Roger the Ex-Con Swan.  He almost caught me south of REDACTED (So Rog can’t find me. Obviously.)  Barely had time to escape.  Even had to ditch my portable kitty litter box and use the Great Outdoors.  Ick.  Can’t do my business with bugs watching me.

My fake passports and stolen credit cards were in a secret compartment under the litter box, so I lost them too.  Which meant that I had to get a … gag … job.  Work.  Me.  Didn’t start off too badly.  The employment agency in REDACTED sent me to Millie’s Diner, where the clientele showed their appreciation for my innovative dishes by going after me with torches and pitchforks.  So did Millie.  Fired.

So I snuck back north to REDACTED and took a logging job on a remote mountainside overlooking an even more remote lake.  Free bacon and eggs.  Free flapjacks.  Life was good until the boss handed me a chainsaw and said, “Chop, chop!” So I did.

On my third day I dropped a small(ish) tree on the boss.  He no longer has a neck.  Which is fine because he was too tall anyway. 

It was hilarious, but he couldn’t see the funny side.  Fired again. 

The work was too dang hard for a cat, so I opted for something easier.

A modeling job was just the ticket.  Lollygagging around having your picture taken.  Right up my particular alley.  I rejected Victoria’s Secret after they laughed at me and tossed me out, so I went down the street to Velma’s Secret.  They have much more adventurous standards for their models.  My test photos were brilliant and I looked gorgeous:

In fact, I looked so gorgeous that the photographer and art director shrieked and passed out.  And stayed that way.  I finally got tired of waiting for them to start breathing again and left with their wallets.  They had just enough cash to set me up for my next job.

Enough of working for other people and getting fired and yelled at.  Time to work for myself!  Be my own boss.  Keep all the profits.  Since I was still in the lovely yet heavily mountainous province of REDACTED, I knew what I had to do.  I bought my kit and went down to the river and started panning for …

… rocks.  Weeds.  Fish.  An 1876 copy of ‘How to Pan for Gold’.  Everything but your actual gold.  The hip-waders were stylish, though.  Until they filled to the brim with freezing cold glacier water.  So, yeah, I admit that they weren’t the best place to stash my Pringles.  Besides, I’d now had too much of the Great Outdoors.  Time for an office job. 

I hitched a ride into the nearest town, whose name I won’t mention because I’ll just have to REDACT it, and found a help-wanted sign outside the local veterinary hospital.  They were dubious about my qualifications, but I pointed out that I know all about animals because I AM an animal.  They were impressed and hired me on the spot.  (The begging and crying helped, too.)

My first assignment: the Doc handed me a large thermometer, shoved me into an office with a giant Rottweiler, and said, “You know what to do, little dude.” 

What happened next will be discussed in veterinary textbooks forever.

And that’s all I’m going to say about that job.  Though it did have one benefit.  I got to spend a week in a very comfortable hospital bed.  With free (bad) food.

But I eventually recovered and was tossed back onto the road.  Never settled.  Never safe.  With no one to clip my claws.  So, what to do next?  There was only one answer to that question:  Show Biz!  I’m off to the bright lights of REDACTED!  Stay tuned …