The Teenerest Locke Turns One

It's been around 416 degrees everyday in Memphis this summer with absolutely no lows.  You can argue with me about actual numbers, but I think that falls under what Henry James called the "fatal futility of fact." It's hot, like hot.  Despite the heat, one Mr. Beanpotts has held strong in his love for porch settin'.  The other day I asked who he thought he was, a lost cast member of 227?  A silent partner of Bartles and James? He suggested that I leave the jokes to the tall one, but held back his usual terse remarks at my humor because it's his birthday on Saturday and he's hoping for a new toy to love, and later eviscerate in front of company.

I love this little pup to pieces and have had so much fun with him.  I know he's not sweet to other people, but he adores me and Craig and you'll just have to take my word for the fact that he's is a precious little lump most of the time. If it weren't so, I would never stand for all the toilet paper shredding and napalm poots.  Happy birthday Max!

First snow = no thanks. I'll make a deposit in the dining room.

This lasted about 30 seconds post nap.

Herr Von Wrinkles

He's not impressed with my fancy degree. Transcript, shmranscript.

Indignant, per usual.

The big trip to Memphis from his Old Kentucky Home.

He's so lucky I didn't eat him right then and there.

Max is the Dennis the Menace to Craig's Mr. Wilson. 

This was the night he informed us that he would be sleeping in the bed.

The one and only Maxwell Franklin Beanpotts

I liked it.

Pooter at the computer.

The day he became slightly more aerodynamic, or neutered.

My puppalup.