Sassafrass laid in boredom on the pleasantly puffy, quilted pillow of his personal apartment. Indeed, Lord Dichtbaggen’s enormous wealth allowed him to construct at a moment’s notice an elaborate penthouse apartment for every pet he owned. Before adding Sassafrass he had but twenty, living in a section of his palace disguised to look like a miniature aparment community known as the Barkmont. Three of its long term residents were cats that felt honestly quite marginalized by this lack of titular inclusion.

Sassafrass’ fireplace was lightly crackling, as he’d rung a butler to bring in a log and get it started about half an hour ago. His magickavision was showing a transcendental broadcast from the science heavy channel that just so happened to be displaying the mating habits of donkeys. His scented aromatherapy candle smelled like lilacs and his miniature magickal microwave oven was just finishing up heating his

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

Sassafrass groaned. The last thing he wanted to do was get up, but

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

Oh cockhamnit. Fine.

Sassafrass pulled himself up onto his feet and jumped off the springy suspension of his pillow and trotted over to the microwave oven, which he opened with a small hoof trigger. The door slid up and open. Within was the steaming cannoli that he so longed for. Yes, Sassafrass wanted a microwave warmed cannoli. He was aware this was somewhat uncommon but it was what he wanted and it was what he hamn well recieved. Such was the way of Lord DichtBaggen’s expansive estate, where nothing was left undone and no one was left wanting. Except Lord Dichtbaggen’s wife, but that was another story.

You’re real proud of yourself, eh? Eating that disgustingly warm cannoli, which might as well be a crime. Like when you ate me.

Oh cluck off, mentally snorted Sassafrass at the inner voice of the rug, which had not seemed to have yet exited his now cannoli-filled intestines.

You know, Sassafrass, they ought to call you Assafrass. Because you’re a clucking asshole.

Sassafrass found he actually quite liked that name. Assafrass. It just sounded right to him, he couldn’t truly say why.

I might just take you up on that offer, thought Assafrass as he slobbered over the warm, soggy cannoli.

This shit is disgusting. Why didn’t you just have the cannoli cold like a normal clucking person?

Because I’m not a person. I’m a clucking ass.

So you are.

So, rug, started Assafrass as scooted himself back on to his luxurious cushion, How exactly are you able to mind speak?

Truly, it was a wonder to Assafrass not just that the rug was still wedged in his intestines but that it was so articulate, and it had him questioning the assumption many animals made that inanimate objects were as soulless, mindless and filthy as humans.

Well, Assafrass, how exactly are you able to mind speak?

With my mind, I would assume.

Don’t be such a smart ass.

Stop using ass-related slang at me. It’s getting a little offensive.

Come on, do you have a rod stuck up your ass or something?

I’m glad I ate you, because at least I’m making you suffer.

Pfft. Suffer. Rugs can’t suffer. Rugs are born to exist. Nothing more, nothing less.

You still haven’t answered my question.

Look, Assafrass, if you must know, when the wizard enchanted me to not be piss or poop on-able by dogs, cats or otherwise, they did it the lazy way. The lazy way happened to include snatching a human soul out of the ether and tying it to me, while at the same time ripping all the memories from that human soul. All I have memory of is having my memories taken away from me and being a rug. If I hadn’t been put in a rug I might be under intense emotional anguish, but, seeing as I’m a rug I’m honestly quite pleased.

So you’re saying humans have souls?

I know, I was surprised myself. I never considered it likely when I was a human.

I’d expect so. That’s just astounding.

You know what else is astounding?

Is it something insulting about me?

I’m astounded that you microwaved that cannoli.

You know what, rug? I’m apparently rich now and kind of the belle of the ball so why don’t you shut the cluck up and go weave yourself a new one?

Hamn. You’ve got teeth, Assafrass.

I’d have to. How else would I have eaten you? I couldn’tve just gummed you up.

That’s fair. Though I’d like to see you try to gum me up.

Ew.

I’m running through your intestines very slowly right now, give me a break, okay?

Fine. You know what?

What?

I think I’m going to ring up the butler and order another cannoli.

You clucking disgust me.

And so Assafrass clopped over to the intercom only for the doorbell to his penthouse ring.

BUNG BUNG BUNG

Well shit, sighed Assafrass in his mind as the door swung open.

In walked Lord Dichtbaggen.

“Haello thaere, may dearaest waolfhound. I’vae goat waith mae twao daog appraisaers froam thae CKaC whoa waould laove toa havae thaemselves aa laook aat yaou.”

The two dog appraisers, both of whom looked rich and studious, shuffled themselves into the compact donkey-sized penthouse.

HEE HAW HEE HEE HAW

“Aas yaou twao caan saee,” started Lord Dichtbaggen, “Oar shoauld Ia saay haear, thais waolfhound makaes quaite baizarre barkaing naoises, almoast laike saome saort oaf unbecaoming daonkey oar soamething.”

“Aah, yaes, Ia doa seea whaat yaou maean. Aloang wiath thaat iat daoes laook, iaf Ia miaght saay, rathaer assainine,” mused a wrinkly lady with shimmering circular spectacles.

“Ia haad aa feealing yaou maight thaink thaat, Madamae Madamoaria. Aand whaat oaf yaou, Mastaer Mastersoan, hoaw doa yaou fiand thae appearance oaf may woalfhound?”

“Whaell, may deaar chaup,” mused the deep, crinkly voice of Master Masterson as he puffed on his cigarette and tightened his ascot, “Iah thaink iat lhooaks quaite, iahf Iah maight sahy, quiate marvealous, ahand whatevaer asshinaineness Mhadamae Mhadamoaria ias pautting dhaown Iah aam noat neceassharily phiacking uap.”

“Fascinatiang, fascianating. Waould yaou twoa laike toa havae aa cloaser looak naow?”

“Oah may yeas,” nodded Madame Madamoria, “Fiarst leat uas examaine iats snaout, whiach Ia heaar taell ias maighty iampressive, aand Ia maust admait iat doaes appaear toa bae soa, aat laeast fraom affaar.”

And so the appraisers inspected Assafrass’ snout, which they found to be far less wet than they would expect from a pooch. This was quickly chalked up to a rare condition known as ‘snout dryification,’ which was simply added to the list of Assafrass’ many ‘-ifications.’

Next they checked his mouth, which they found to be larger than a wolfhound of his size would be expected to have, which of course implied he had abnormal ‘mouth largification’ and along with that had a temporary case of ‘teeth cannolification’ caused by bits of microwaved cannoli still stuck between his gnashers and his gums. Lord Dichtbaggen was advised to deal with this temporary ‘ification’ by ensuring his wolfhound’s teeth were brushed twice a day and flossed once a day, as a canine with cavities or indeed even poor smelling breath was sure to lose points at the annual dog ball, especially considering its mouth odor may at that point become too enticing for the other well bred dogs to focus on their tricks.

They did indeed check every aspect of Assafrass’ body, from his hooves (which troubled and confused the dog appraiseres endlessly) to as one might expect even his ass, finding heaps of different rare ‘ifications’ that, by the end of it, had them viewing him as a bit of a genetic freak of a wolfhound.

“Wheall,” started Master Masterson, “Nhaow thaat aall thaat meass seattled, lheat’s seea haim dhoa aa traick oar twao. Hoaw wheall traianed ias thias whoalfhound? Thaere ias aa ceartain lheavel oaf ohbeadiance reaquired fhoar thae dhoag bhaall, aas yaou knhoaw aall tooa wheall.”

Assafrass noticed Lord Dichtbaggen squirm a bit at this last statement from Master Masterson.

“Weall thean,” Lord Dichtbaggen glowered at Assafrass, suddenly seemingly snapping into dictator mode and even shaking his fist at Assafrass as if he’d soiled the floor, which was impossible because it was enchanted to prevent that from happening. Though Assafrass hoped it was not enchanted with yet another human soul as the rug he had eaten apparently was.

“Goa oan, yaou staupid aniamal, flay! Flay Ia saay!”

Alright, rug. They’re glaring at me. Please make me fly, this whole ordeal has made me very uncomfortable.

Instead of flying, Assafrass sat there, looking ashamed of himself.

Honestly, started the rug, I’m not even sure I’m a hundred percent in control of the flight, Assafrass. I can influence it, but truthfully the first time it happened it was more like a instantaneous response. I’ll do my best, okay?

Just hurry up. Lord Dichtbaggen looks like he wants to burn me alive.

Well I mean I’m sure he has a complex. I mean, cluck, what the hen kind of a name is ‘Lord Dichtbaggen’ anywhatways?

Rug, I agree with you, but please just try and make me fly. I am seriously feeling the pressure.

Okay okay okay one second one second okay and here we go…

Assafrass felt a gurgling in his bowels and a stiffness in his legs. And then he tooted. One toot. Two toots. Three and four toots. The only thing that lifted up in the air was his tail after each toot, after which he was left lying on his side in shame.

Shit. Sorry, chup.

“Viale creatuare!” growled Lord Dichtbaggen, “Whay whaat gooad arae yaou iaf yaou caan’t evaen flay, whaat wiath aall yaour waild ‘iafications’ Ia swaear yaou’re hardlay aa daog aat aall!”

But all was not lost, for just when it seemed that Assafrass was plain out of flatulence, it came back with a vengeance, twice as loud, thrice as smelly, and four times as propellant, so much so that after a brief chain of farts Assafrass was hovering up near the ceiling of his dog apartment, much to everyone’s amazement.

“Weall daear mea,” sighed Madame Madamoria, “Ia caan scarcelay bealieve whaat Ia’m seeaing! Iat daoes indeead flay!”

“Mharvelous,” agreed Master Masterson, “Ahbsoalutely mharvelaous, Lhaord Diachtbaggen. Thea CKhaC whiall bhea moare thaan happay toa havae yhoau aand yhaour whoalfhound aat thea dhoag bhaall, aas weall aas thoa reciave yaour geanerous dhoanation oaf threea haundred thouasand chiackensfheed.”

“Threea haundred thaousand? Whay, Mastaer Mastearson, Ia belieave Ia onlay pleadged toa doanate thairty thaousand.”

Master Masterson lightly pushed Assafrass out of his face as if he were a balloon and exhaled cigarette smoke into Lord Dichtbaggen’s face, “Iah bhealieve yhaou arae miastaken. Whea looak fhoarward toa yhaour geanerous dhoanation.”

Lord Dichtbaggen squinted in frustration, and then also pushed Assafrass away from his face, for the floating donkey had a bit of a habit of garavitating toward’s people’s faces, with his posterior facing them no less, “Veray weall. Threea haundred thaousand iat shaall bae.”