Not fat. Fluffy

Me at home. I love pottering around in the garden.

Me at home. I love pottering around in the garden.

Ross called Son Son, Clancee and me into his office last week.

“Nice work on the skin folds Michael,” he said, “I know you’re sick of hearing about it but I’d make you captain if I could.” Son Son just shrugged but you could tell he was pleased and puzzled.

“Good to see you could get through the door without turning sideways Clancee. Only joking mate, just wanted to tell you again that I’m proud of you for getting rid of the barge arse.” Ross has been a bit emotional since the end of the year.

“No worries Boss,” said Clancee, “Yeah. No. Thanks.”

Everyone looked at me. I wondered what I was doing there.

“You could do with losing a few grams Frankie,” Ross has a way of getting straight to the point.

Everyone was looking at me. Waiting for me to say something, even though dogs can’t talk.

“I’m not fat I’m fluffy,” I said with my eyes. “It’s because mum and dad went to see me in the grand final and I wasn’t in it and so my latest hair cut was late.”

I knew that after my haircut from my personal groomer Carol I’d prove the haters wrong.

The photographer said I was a natural model.

The photographer said I was a natural model.

Fyfey told me about his photo shoot in Men’s Health a while back so when my manager got the call from Puppy Health I thought why not. The story isn’t coming out for a while but I was able to get a couple of my post haircut photos – so I’m looking for a few apologies – I wasn’t fat I was just fluffy.

By the way I showed the photos to Fyfey and now he’s thinking of getting a haircut in Norway. “Something like Bjork,” he said.

“She’s from Iceland,” I said.

“Whatever,” he said.

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