I'm a canine. But I'm a French canine. Why does this matter? Because Tiia, Dan and I went for a hike on the Plains of Abraham this morning, and as I ran along the rolling hills, I had to decide whether to pretend to be Wolfe or Montcalm. I chose the latter which, given the results of the Seven Year War, probably wasn't the best way to go; but as the Marquis surely said at one point or another, c'est la vie.
Dan thought it'd be fun to make me chase the frisbee down an 80˚ hill. I think it'll be fun to let a few ripe ones go in the car tomorrow.
I met my great grandfather today for the first time. I think he thought that me being a French Water Dog meant that I spoke French. I smiled and nodded a lot.
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