I met Molly

After spending the better part of my day being toted about town in a loud, terrifying, bumpy, frightening, and Yorkie-torturing mobile (some call it a car) I got to hang out in there for a couple more hours by myself while my mommy went visiting. You would think that when I was finally freed I would be on my best behavior. I was, for two minutes. I let a three-year-old pet me and peed happily on some grass.

As I was carried through our hostess's house to be relegated to the backyard where I couldn't cause problems, the large and curious Labra-doodle of the home, Molly, stood on her hind legs to innocently sniff my crotch. As anyone would, I took this as a clear attempt on my life and obvious declaration of warfare. Fearing for all I hold dear, I growled fiercely in my most vicious voice, squirming for freedom, to defeat the beast that had threatened me so. Molly blinked. I was dumped unceremoniously in the yard.

There was an awkward silence.

"Oh, she's so nice!" Molly's mother proclaimed quickly.

Now that is politeness perfected to an artform.