I'm never quite sure how I end up in these situations. I mean, a washer? How the heck did I end up in a washer? It's all smooth metal, not exactly easy for me to climb up with my claws and lack of opposable thumbs.
Sometimes, I can blame my odd locations on my owner. George finds it hilarious to place me in odd places and then take my picture. Like the time he took out an old duffel bag and put me in it. He then picked the bag up by the handles and toted me around. "Look!" he said. "It's a bag beagle!"
Yes, master of wit, George is not. But he feeds me and rubs my belly and keeps his daughter Alice from torturing me with make-up and tea parties...usually. And he always throws my stuffed elephant for me to chase in the evening, no matter how many times I bring it back. He never quits until I do.
I just hope he gets me out of here, before he starts his whites. I tried howling for help, but that just made my head hurt as the sound reverberated around the metal drum. Plus there's nothing to chew on in here. Sigh. At least he'll find me by dinnertime...if I last that long.
Oh believe me, I know what you mean about humans who think they're funny. My Eric does this thing where he rolls me up in a blanket. Calls me a "Terrier Taco". It amuses him to no end. I feel for ya, man. Hang in there.
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