Of the leash
-
For a pair of pants
His favorite pastime
For the last time
-
Why can't I be a normal kid like any other?
Now, doodle bug, listen to mother.
I hate dogs.
I do not wish to be a dog.
Yes!
Garbage!
More garbage!
Brother, Saturday afternoon TV is the worst!
Ah, now we're talking.
The Soporific Scientific Channel presents
"Exotic Birds Of South America."
Holy Hannah! I love the latinas!
Hey! What happened to my program?
I changed it, and frankly, I'm very disappointed in you,
watching such titillating nonsense.
It's boorish.
Exotic birds are not boring!
Not "boring"-- boorish.
A boor is a cretin, a philistine,
an individual of no breeding.
Oh, never mind.
Anyway, we're not watching it anymore.
I dibbed the TV for the day weeks ago.
What for?
Only the single-most unmissable television event of the year.
Live from the East Westland Municipal Auditorium,
it's the 67th Annual East Westland
Canine Convocation Dog Show.
Okay, two things.
One, a cat watching a dog show's an abomination!
And two, it doesn't start for another hour.
This is the preshow. I hate to miss any of the hype.
Ooh, look!
Their interactive website is up and running.
67thcanineconvocation.dog.
"Profiles of the dogs and their owners,
interviews, insight, downloadable stats."
Ahh! And a fantasy pick-the-winner game!
I'm in heaven!
Pardon my confusion,
but I could have sworn you were of the feline persuasion.
Why do you give a hoot about a dog show?
Well, one, they don't televise the cat show.
I don't understand that.
And two, despite its heavy canine energy,
the dog show still champions all the civilized traits
that I, as a proud descendant
of the Louisiana Puddinpuss family, was taught to respect.
Civilized traits?! Like hacking up fur balls
and leaving half-mice on the living-room floor?
Ooh, look! The red carpet! Oh, it's beautiful.
And here they come--
East Westland's proudest purebreds.
Brother, look at all those blue bloods.
I bet they got more papers than a condor's birdcage.
Say, what breed are you, Spot?
Breed? Why, I'm not sure.
That is to say, I've never actually seen my papers.
Leonard, perhaps you can enlighten us.
What noble blood courses through my canine veins?
I think you're just a mutt.
A mutt?!
Mutt-- defined in the dog-show glossary
as "a dog of mixed breed,
utterly unwelcome in our hallowed halls-- a mongrel."
Me-- Spot Helperman/Scott Leadready II-- a mongrel?
I think not!
Now, now. Don't feel bad.
We can't all be scions of the Puddinpuss dynasty.
There's no shame in being an untouchable.
Your take on untouchables is touching, but I don't accept it.
A dog of my intellect, taste, and bravery?
Come on, I must be a purebred.
Perhaps I'm an Australian cattle dog,
said to be among the smartest of breeds.
Or perhaps a poodle, the poshest of pooches.
Maybe my bravery derives from the stalwart rescue blood
of the St. Bernard.
Sorry, Spot, but I don't think you're any of those breeds.
But I must be some breed!
Otherwise, I'm a multibreed or a half-breed
or even a worse-- a no breed.
I got to know, Leonard!
Oh, I'm going across the street for a bit, doodle bug.
You can take Spot for a walk if you want to.
Hey, Mom, do you know what kind of dog Spot is?
Well, of course-- he's a lovable, dubbable, cutie-wootie,
oogie-boogie, pupper-wupper kind of dog.
No. I mean what breed?
Ah ha ha!
Oh, Lenny-penny, he's got more different kinds of blood in him
than a hyperactive mosquito.
She obviously doesn't realize that any dog
who can pass himself off as a fourth grader
must have purebred genes.
It's just a matter of finding out what kind.
Will you please be quiet?
You're drowning out the dog show.
156 breeds of dog
all vying for the title of "best in show."
Of course. That's it!
There are 156 breeds at that show.
One of them must be related to me.
It's just one big doggy gene pool,
just waiting for me to dip my tongue in and lap, lap, lap.
Come on, Leonard, we're taking that walk--
to the 67th Annual East Westland
Canine Convocation Dog Show.
Oh, brother. There goes my Saturday.
I'm all atwitter, Leonard. Look at me-- twittering!
I absolutely love voyages of self-discovery.
Just like Alex Haley, in the classic novel
and groundbreaking miniseries, I'm gonna find my roots!
Ha ha-- roots! Hey, you hear that, boys?
Yeah, what a poser.
First, the mutt dresses up like a boy.
Now he's a purebred wannabe.
Hey, Mr. Wannabe-- heh-heh heh-heh.
See that, Leonard? That's how mutts behave.
I'm obviously not one of them.
Hey, what are you talking mutts, huh?
I'm a Sicilian Dung-Beetle Terrier.
I got papers here!
Yeah, and I'm a Longhaired Ortney Sheepdog.
I got a haircut.
They're purebreds? Wow!
If those lowlifes have papers,
I must be a really special breed.
Come on, Lenny, let's get to that dog show.
Thank goodness! They finally left.
Now I can concentrate on the show.
Just peace, quiet, and fine breeding.
What in sweet creation is that unholy noise?!
It's just what we don't need around here-- another cat.
Well, how do you do, birdie boy?
If I wasn't such a companionable cat,
I might be inclined to call you lunch.
That voice-- I know that voice.
But seeing as I am-- companionable, that is--
I'd settle for a bowl of crunchies
and a place to rest for an hour or two.
But it couldn't be... could it?
Hey, Jolly, there's a cat here wanting food.
Tell him to go away!
Oh, come now, son.
Is that any way to treat your old dad?
Say what?!
Behold, Leonard-- the dog show!
It's like the Camelot of good breeding.
And just as a young King Arthur discovered his royal birth
by pulling the sword from the stone,
so I, too, shall soon redefine myself by my noble ancestry.
King Arthur's just a legend.
You're a real, live dog who disguises himself as a boy.
Oh, stop being so literal and make like a purebred owner.
It's beautiful!
Just think-- somewhere in there lies my ancestry.
That scruffy schlemiel is your pop?
You told me you were one
of the hoity-toity Louisiana Puddinpusses.
I am... on my mother's side.
See, my mommy, Missy Puddinpuss, had it all--
comfort, wealth, a good name.
The world was her ball of yarn... until he came along--
Mr. Poppy, with his polished, hard-luck story and a smile.
He led mommy down the path of scandal and shame.
Left her with nothing but bittersweet memories
and a whole basketful of little Puddinpusses to feed,
including me.
That's the cat on our windowsill,
and he's got some nerve showing his whiskers around here.
He's a crude, classless, partying, womanizing--
whoa, whoa, whoa! I've heard enough.
Sounds like my kind of cat.
Hey, there. Jolly tells me you're his pop.
So fill me in.
How did a fun-loving guy like you
turn out a prissy, fussy cat like that?
Oh, he gets all the priss and fuss from his mother.
Oh, come on, Jolly, let him in.
He's fun!
Absotively negativo!
Why should I let him back in? He was the one who walked out.
Welcome back to the 67th Canine Convocation Dog Show.
The hype is all over, and there's nothing left now
but the judging.
Attention, handlers.
Please ready your pets for the "best of breed" competition.
Just look at all these admirable creatures, Leonard.
To think, one of them is long-lost kindred.
They all look kind of snooty to me,
and so do their owners.
-Sit up! -Lie down.
-Be still. -Dude, you got to stop shedding.
Dude, it's like bad for our image.
Leroy, y'all want to stop panting?
Your breath's hotter than a barbecued chili pepper in August.
Hoover, agh!
You're slobbering all over my dress.
It'll stain!
Look, Leonard-- a dalmatian. They're born actors, you know.
That could explain my flair for the theater.
You're Seychelles Grand Hovernose.
I recognize you from our cat's downloadable
dog-show fantasy game profile.
Never mind. Hard to explain.
I was just wondering.
Take a good look at me. Looking? Okay.
First impression-- don't think too much.
Am I a dalmatian or what?
I rather doubt it.
But the camera loves me. I have the talent.
But do you have the proud, erect tail?
The ability to run for hours on end,
attributable to our breeding as English carriage dogs?
Actually, running is not my strong suit.
Asthma.
Although I do know something about the carriage
and its relationship
to 17th-century English economic development.
Do you have, in a word, Spots?
Eh... I got one. My name is Spot.
You are most certainly not a dalmatian.
Okay. No hard feelings.
One breed down, 155 to go.
Ah! Bloodhounds!
Now there's a noble breed.
Used by law-enforcement agencies the world over
to track down criminals.
I must be a bloodhound!
How else to explain
my extraordinary crime-solving abilities
in my manifestation as... "Scottlock" Holmes?
Ha ha ha ha!
That's quite an outfit there, boy.
But do you have the bloodhound saggy skin?
The oversized ears designed to hold the scent around the nose?
Eh... in a word, no.
Then take a walk, boy.
This here's a bloodhounds only area.
For purebreds, they sure don't have very good manners.
It's almost like they wish they weren't dogs.
Maybe I'm a golden retriever.
Uh, you're like blue, dude.
Too small.
-Tan grande! -Tan grande!
Too many fur issues.
Not enough fur issues.
Maybe Moe and Dickens and the rest of them are right.
Maybe I am just a mutt.
Don't feel bad, Spot.
You don't want to be like these snobby dogs, anyway.
You're right, bunky.
The way they treated me,
I wouldn't join their little blue-blood club
if they got down on all fours and begged me!
Calling all Scottish Blue Bloodhounds.
Come on, McDougal. That's our cue!
Leonard, look! It's one of me!
I found my roots!
I'm a Scottish Blue Bloodhound!
Sporran and chain mail
A purebred scot
They can take away our chew toys,
but they cannot take away our freedom!
I named my alter ego Scott
On my Scottish roots so deep
Sporran and chain mail
Last call--
all Scottish Blue Bloodhounds to the show floor.
Come on, Leonard. Take me out there.
Put me in the show.
I want to take my rightful place
with the rest of my extended blue family.
Okay. If that's what you really want.
I can't see a thing. Where am I?
I think we're right in the middle of the floor.
And here they are--
the Scottish Blue Bloodhounds.
Oh, no! I'm a wiener dog?!
What in tarnation is that?!
Oh! Some kind of a horrible mongrel!
He's not one of us, laddies!
Let's get him!
Come on, boys... laddies.
We must share some blood, right?
I mean, there's the whole blue thing.
You're blue... I'm blue. We're simpatico.
Ooh, boy.
With the light brown hair
Whoa!
No harm, no foul.
Ha ha ha!
Hey, you are one fun feline.
Hey, Jolly, get off your furry keister.
Come sing with us.
Your poppy is a hoot and a half.
Sorry, but I do not engage in the type of low-brow antics
Mr. Poppy enjoys.
Besides, I'm otherw--
Pretty Boy, Pretty Boy!
Come here, quick-- on the screen.
Look, look, look!
Spot!
Boy, is that poor mutt out of place
in this highborn crowd.
Oh, tsk-tsk-tsk.
Well, I suppose that's what he gets for putting on airs
and refusing to acknowledge his real roots.
Come on, Jolly, it's starting to rain.
How about letting your poor pop in to dry his fur?
I have no father! I have no father!
Self-awareness is obviously not this cat's strong suit.
That's quite a disturbance down on the floor.
So let's take a break.
And then we'll be back for the "best of show" judging.
Best of show! Best of show's next!
Oh, boy, oh, boy, oh, boy!
No! The cable's out! Oh, cruel fate.
You inimical gods of telecommunications,
what have I done to offend you so?
My life is ruined!
Say, Mr. Jolly, I think I can get your picture back...
If you let me inside.
You can?
Well, don't just stand there. Hurry, hurry!
I'd like to emphasize that letting you in the house
does not symbolize me letting you back into my life
and acknowledging my roots.
Whatever you say, son.
You're logged on to the dog-show website, right?
So, we just plug the computer into the TV monitor...
Pull up the live streaming webcast and voilà!
We're back,
and you absolutely won't believe what's going on here.
You don't want to miss a second of this.
Get that mutt out of here!
He'll infect my poopsie with his mongrel diseases!
Leonard, where are you? Help!
Spot! Spot!
Here, boy!
Curses! It looks like curtains.
The jig is up. What horrible clichés.
Is that me talking?
Everybody, stop!!
What are you people doing?
Who? Us?
Yeah, you.
I'm totally amazed at how clueless you all are.
What do you mean, son?
You all say you're dog lovers, right?
Uh...yeah?
But you're totally missing out on what a dog is.
You just care about their breeding
and their purebred papers, how many trophies they win,
how they can make you look good.
But that's not what makes a dog great.
What makes a dog great is how loyal he is,
the way he can be your absolute best friend in the world.
Aw, Lenny, you're killing me here.
All I'm saying is, for a crowd of dog lovers,
I sure don't feel a whole lot of love in this room.
Anyway... well, that's all.
Hoover, you're a good dog.
Oh, this dress is history anyway.
You pant all you want to, Leroy. I love you, boy.
Dude, you totally shed!
Hi ya, Leonard.
Hey, Spot.
Can we go home now?
You bet.
How'd you do that trick with the television?
Where did a lowlife alley cat
learn such advanced computer-networking skills?
I've worked with a lot of discarded PCs
left in alley dumpsters.
So that's where I get my high-tech acumen.
The Puddinpusses always said you were a low-down nogoodnik.
Well, now that's not exactly true.
In fact, I was quite the socialite.
A scion of the Georgia Whiskervilles, I was.
Whaaa! Oh, my silver spoons.
You're a Whiskerville?!
Yes, indeed.
But I found the whole purebred scene
to be a very large crock of nonsense.
I insisted on telling those snobs--
including the Puddinpusses, I'm afraid--
that who you are is more important
than who your pappy was.
Well, they threw me off their property for my trouble.
I never knew.
Would you stay here forever, please, please, please?
I'd love to, Jolly, but I'm a rambling cat.
And now that I'm fed and dry, for which I thank you kindly,
it's time to be a-ramblin' on.
Don't worry, Jolly, I'll drop back by for a visit every now and again.
Bye now.
So, you're a Puddinpuss and a Whiskerville.
You've got some genes.
Oh, who cares? Didn't you hear what he said?
What kind of cat you are is more important
than who your completely wonderful pappy was.
It's nice to be loved, Leonard.
But I still can't believe I'm not a purebred.
You just don't get it, do you, Spot?
You're better than them.
You're not just smart like an Australian Cattle Dog
or brave like a St. Bernard
or a good tracker like a bloodhound.
You're brave and smart and a good tracker
and a dozen other things besides.
That's why I love mutts. You've got it all.
Still, I think I looked rather dashing in a kilt.
Hey, Mr. Jolly's not watching the show.