(Tiny slumbers happily in his heavily cushioned corner. His sisters are snuggled up against him and all is well. Or is it?
Scene: Spartacus has been defeated, and the Romans are trying to figure out which one of the survivors IS Spartacus. All of the slaves stand up, one at a time, to declare themselves the rebel leader. Suddenly, in the midst of the mob, a huge, wrinkly beast, in dented gladiator gear, makes himself known.
Tiny – “RI’m Rarticus!”
The Roman doing the questioning gapes and shakes his head.
Roman – “No you’re not! You’re a dog in armor!”
Tiny – “RI’m Rarticus!!”
Roman – “No you’re not!”
Tiny edging closer – “Uh huh!”
Nervous Roman – “You can’t be!”
Tiny, in front of VERY nervous Roman – “Ram Roo!!!”
Roman – “Nope. Not Poss….”
Tiny – “RUFF!!! SNARL!!!”
Terrified Roman – “HI THERE, SPARTACUS!!! Gee, didn’t recognize you in the fur coat! How’s the missus and the kids!?”
Tiny giggles in his sleep.)
Dear Journal:
Well . . . the Senate was less than happy with the reorganization plan. In fact, the attempt was my first major setback since becoming Caesar. I immediately left the room and tabled the reorganization for another day. I could afford to wait as long as necessary to win THIS arguement. And I WOULD win!
Meanwhile, the Wrinkly family had moved on to one of their favorite sports. Hallway cushion racing. Down their favorite hallway whizzed the Mutts and Pups, all having a grand old time of it.
Except Tiny.
It should be noted that, although Tiny was big, fast, powerful, and nearly unbreakable, he was a little slow upstairs. Oh, he was as intelligent as the rest of his family; it just took a bit longer for him to digest information.
Whatever the reason, the big lug was sitting off to the side of the raceway, staring at his oversized, custom cushion. Tiny was totally perplexed as to what to do with that cushion. He would mumble, tilting his head to one side, then the other. He sniffed it. Pawed at it. Pushed it, and whimpered.
One of the cushion placers (the Tribune had reassigned the job to his team when he got promoted) saw Tiny’s confusion and rushed over to help. Picking up Tiny’s cushion, the fellow walked to the launch area, Tiny ambling after. Using a form of sign language, the fellow attempted to explain the mechanics of cushion racing.
Tiny watched the others play for a minute or two, and then, it happened. The light of comprehension flashed in Tiny’s eyes. He dragged his cushion to the starting point, backed up, and lunged. He hit the cushion perfectly and shot down the raceway.
WHOOOOSH!!!! RUUUUUFFFF!!
Note here. Never have a wooden wall in front of Tiny when he’s traveling at high speed. The end of the hallway had a wooden wall, unlike the rest of the palace. It had, apparently, been overlooked in the numerous renovations done over the years. It was the case of the irresistable force smashing into the, supposedly, immovable, object.
Tiny, unable to slow down or stop due to his mass and speed, hit that wall head on. And kept going. There was an explosion of wood chips and flying debris as the whole wall disappeared. Moments later, a confused Tiny peeked back through the massive opening he had left behind.
Ruff?
I figured we had better build a new, stone wall, before the races continued. At least my mutts were having fun.
The Roman View 
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