I didn't win the group I was entered in, the bad sport group. Mom calls me her 'bad boy' but obviously she's wrong. That ancient poodle chick must be a lot badder than me, because the judge picked her as the bad sport of the year.
A special congrats to Tsar, my pack-mate, who thinks he's a cat. The big guy even has Mom convinced that he's part cat, and it's not easy putting one over on her, believe me, I've tried. Tsar lays around making squeaky cat noises and he catches mice, sheesh.
Now that the contest is over, things can go back to normal, which means I can get back to picking on that little wimp, Noah. What a mama's boy that kid is. He sure doesn't take after his old man.
So everyone raise one to the winner and for the rest of us, there's always next year.
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