Weekend humor from Celia Rivenbark: Snowflake Cruz has a bone to pick with his owner

Ted Cruz makes up for lost time after his ill-fated trip to Cancun – Photo: https://www.cruz.senate.gov/

Is there really anything left to say about Ted Cruz’s ill-advised trip to Cancun?

Maybe not from the human pundits but I imagine Snowflake, the Cruz family’s famously left-behind poodle, has a few things he’d like to get off his furry little chest…

A Statement From The Office of Snowflake Cruz, Which is Basically a Basket of Old Underwear Beside the Dryer…

Hi. Snowflake here. Perhaps you recognize me from my recent viral photograph: “Staring At Reporter From Inside My Humans’ Freezing Ass Dining Room.”

First thing I’d like to say is there is no truth to the rumor that my name is a derisive reference to soft-hearted libtards given me by my “master.” Trust me; he’s not that clever. Nope. It’s because I’m white. Which the whole family likes, of course.

I’d also like to clear the air and state that some of you have gotten a lot of fake news from “the cat down the street” who is a liar and always has been. It is categorically untrue that I was left behind because “He can subsist on his own poop for weeks at a time anyhow.” That is a vile lie and, really, what else would one expect coming from someone who has two speeds: disdainful and aloof. There. I said it.

The truth is, I was unable to join my humans at the Ritz Carlton Cancun because of the hotel’s barbaric regulations, which only allow “service” animals, which, as we all know is a joke. Ever since that fool on an airplane slapped a red vest on her “emotional support ferret” it ruined it for all of us. (This just in: ferrets are jerks.)

Much has been made of my mistress describing our Texas home as “FREEZING!” in a text message to “friends.” This was mere moments before leaving me to ponder how I could possibly generate some warmth, which, if I’m being honest is a problem the master seems to have a terrible time with as well.

So things have been, errrr, I wanna say “tense” since the master returned by himself from Mexico. At first I was jumping up and down and yelling “OMG! You’re Back! You didn’t abandon me after all!” But the cat down the street rolled his eyes so hard at my “disgusting desperation” I toned it down a bit.

As we all now know, he didn’t come back for ME. He came back because of something called “bad optics.” I dunno. I once ate some “bad sweat socks” so I get why he just sat around groaning for hours. I must remember to beat my head against a wall screaming “Beto!” if it happens to me again.

Truthfully, there was a security guy in a nice, warm car in the driveway some of the time so it’s not like I was “alone, alone.” And now I’m an influencer, prolly get my own Twitter account. The cat promised to help me with that. Wait. Why is he laughing?

Celia Rivenbark is a NYT bestselling author and columnist. Write her at [email protected].

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