Brahms setting the record straight

Bartok is in the wars again!  It's his ear this time; I'm sure he will report back to you in due course.  He is fit, well and has another satellite dish on his head, so I have seized the laptop to correct the image he has painted of me as an unsympathetic bully.

My daddies and Auntie Gill know that I am not a thug.  In fact I am frequently complimented on my calm, stoic temperament and artistic leanings.  It is no accident that I was named after the great romantic composer.  I have inherited his capacity for reflection, luscious melodies and controlled passion.  Bartok, on the other hand reflects his namesake's uncompromising, innovative, explosive passion and I have to say, at times, rather scratchy tunes. Living with spontaneity is not easy and I have been the butt of Bartok's impulsiveness for the whole of my short life.

Mostly we get on very well.  Me on the right.

Don't get me wrong, I love my brother to bits, but I do put up with a great deal of shit from him.  He failed to mention that when he is cone-less, he makes my life a misery.  He nicks my bones and I am frequently confused as to whether he wants to lick me, or hump me.  In fact, sometimes he is so over the top that I stay close to my humans for protection.

All I have done during the cone period is to give him a dose of his own medicine.  I'm hoping that he will understand how horrid it is, so he won't do it to me any more.  I have done my best to excuse his selfish behaviour.  I've let him have my bones and watched him sit with a pile of them between his paws and two stuffed in his mouth so that he is unable to chew, without dropping one.  It doesn't seem very fair to me.