By Mrs. Jerry Robinson as told by Richard, a real shaggy dog.

MY name is Richard the Tiger. I’m a dog. A rather handsome black and white fellow of undetermined origin. I am small but mighty. I am presently employed by the editor of this paper as a watch dog, court jester and hunting companion. (Scuze me a minute while I rearrange my fleas).
 
I have held this position for some time now and if I had known what the future held for me I would never have left the sanctuary of my cell down at the pound. 

This Robinson is a nice enough fella in his way but I can state positively and I do so without rancor, as a hunter he’s strictly for the birds. 
This brings me to the point of this interview.

Last week (I knew I should have dug up those bones I stashed away and hit the road). Last week I spotted old scatter shot loading the car with the usual hunting paraphernalia. Three pairs of shoes, sleeping sack, extra pants, two jackets, ouija board, hatchet, Geiger counter, space ranger helmet, a box of seed (he swiped that from our parakeet) and 24 peanut butter sandwiches.

Oh, yes, after we were nearly a mile from the house he had  to go back for a gun and some shells.

              Lots of Yacking

Any good dog knows there is nothing to flushing a covey of quail or routing a wily pheasant. But how come Robinson doesn’t know I know this? All the way over, yackety, yackety… he tries to tell me my job.

I went along with the gag the first forty miles then I nibbled gently on his left leg as a gentle reminder that I knew what the score was. (I can tell you this right now—Zero!).

I finally managed a short nap and just in the middle of a  dream about sirloin steak he jabs me and screams hysterically “Cmon Richard old boy—Let’s bring home the bacon”.

You know something? If he had a whole pen full of porkers right under his muzzle we still wouldn’t bring home any bacon. 

               Bang

Well, to make a grim story short, I worked that field like I was ten dogs. I flushed and he flubbed. Finally in desperation I sneak up on an old pheasant who was napping, felling him with a sharp blow from my paw. Then I threw a stick up in the air and barked sharply. He fired—sure he did—I swear by my eyes. So I trotted back with my kill and to this day he thinks he got that bird. 

But listen, don’t noise this around. I just wanted to set the facts straight. You see, Robinson has been kind of surly ever since we came back to the car and the peanut butter sandwiches had disappeared. He suspects me but the truth of the matter is they fell out of the car after a sharp blow from my paw into a drainage ditch for the third time that day. 

Agree with him

When Robinson starts telling you all about his pheasant, just go along with him, will ya? I gotta live too.

I’m gonna run this down to typesetting. They’ve known me since I was a pup. For gosh sakes, don’t tell HIM I can talk. He’ll have me selling ads. 

Sincerely,
Richard