So I doesn't think I makes such a good dog. I won't never hear a burgular on account of my long ole ears. My tale don't wag proper acause someone chopped most of it off when I were sleepin' one time. I beed wishing 'bout being a cowboy. I gots four legs for holdin' on tight to my horsey when I gets one; and I thinks I'm prawly bees a pretty good shot, too. So from now on, I bees Clint the Cowboy; that's what I tole Momma. She sayed oh, Georgie, you's so silly, come and have your dinner now. But I didn't even. Acause I doesn't know no George. I's Clint the Cowboy. Or Clint for short. I'm prawly have to eat after she goes to bed.