International Standards: Passport

Mother was commenting today on my lack of good hygiene. I don't see what the problem is.

I think I look clean enough.

At first, Mother thinks I am clean enough, too

As I get closer, though, it is obvious I fall below her standard of "clean".

Unclean! Unclean!

 

Boyfriend!?! 

Did you sleep on the warm pillow again? 

How do you do that?

Easy, I just close my eyes and drift away on a warm sea of tranquility.

Ew. You have all sorts of stains. 

And you sort of smell. 

I don't like smelling like that, too. Ick. 

Do I really have to brush you?

Whatever.

 This side isn't so bad...

Really, Bif? That is clean to you?

 Honestly, Mother! You make me sound like some primitive creature that has climbed up out of the primordial ooze.

Errr... ummmm...

 Can we just get on with whatever you came up here for?

Me and my big mouth. Mother gave me a really good currying and brushing, but then she decided it was time. Every year around this time, she decides I need to renew my passport.

I'm not sure which is stranger... the fact that she insists on doing this, or the fact that I don't really mind. Truth be told, I was sweating a bit from all that extra hair. 

I'm glad it's gone.

Tasteful, tactful, photographic proof of my Bolivian.

Mother commented for the first time today on how long my forelock has grown. She grumbled because after she put my halter on and made sure my mane was out from under the crown, she had to pull my forelock out from under the noseband.

Great, another reason for her to snivel.