So, I love a good belly rub. Don’t you?
Ahhhh. Thanks peep.
Hey, something weird happened to me a while back. And the peeps have no idea how it happened. And I’m not telling. See, I was giving the peep my belly out in the yard last Friday and there I was. Pretty as you please, showing my belly to the world when the peep started patting it and let out a shriek so loud Wally and Samuel probably heard it down in South Africa. No kidding.
Somehow, weeks ago, I skinned my belly – like you skin your knee – and there’s a wound site the size of an overgrown 50 cent piece. And if you don’t know how big that is, well, it’s kind of like the size of a round ping pong ball, only BIGGER. Way bigger. But it’s not the size of a tennis ball. Had to throw that in there with Wimbledon and all.
The scab is just about gone. And there’s a red ring around the whole thing. But you know what? I didn’t care. She just kept on rubbing my belly with one hand while poking at the old wound with the other. I didn’t feel a thing. It didn’t hurt at all. Promise. AND, I’ve been frog doggin’ for weeks and never let on that I’d hurt myself.
What’s up with that? I ask you. What. Is. Up. With. THAT?
She’s wondering if Dogtor Elliott needs to look at it. But, I said, “hey peep, it’s over now – no blood, no gore, no lethargy, no yukky stuff coming out of it, so let’s just leave it alone.”
What do you think?