Prisons were made to be broken.

“You need to give me a minute, Joe,” Mom sternly advised me this morning as I was racing

to and fro from my butterfly “good boy” bed to the front door. Doesn’t she understand the pace of urgency?

“I can’t just give you a minute, Mom. Didn’t Justin Timberlake’s new movie teach you anything? It must be bought, stolen, or killed for, and frankly, my bladder’s urging me to take the latter if you don’t GUN IT, SISTER!”

“These days, a minute isn’t something you can promptly give away or request, Mom. You have to earn a minute, and I feel I’ve earned my fair share of minutes. Enough so, I could probably buy a few days worth after that unforgivable stunt you and dad pulled a couple of week s ago...”

Oh, I’m sorry. You guys probably didn’t hear. About 3 weeks ago, as a result of me deliberately ripping Petri (my beloved duck-duck)

at his seams for quacking about me eating the blinds, Mom and Dad decided it was time to drop me off at G-mama’s for the weekend. I assumed they needed a break, but I didn’t see this as fit punishment, seeing as how G-mama’s house is a safe-haven (usually), and not so much a retribution for bad behavior. But, none-the-less, I was thrilled to be amongst the geese babies and my dear ole’ Grand… or so I thought. It wasn’t until G-mama wistfully enticed me to join her in a car ride (which she knew I couldn’t resist) that I somehow ended up in the most deplorable, wretched place I’ve experienced in my four years of prancing this earth…

Friends, this is where the story begins…

I knew from the instant Craig (my boorish, boiled friend) and I initially met, he emerged into my life for an unforeseeably good reason. However, I wasn’t aware just how crucial his presence was until I arrived at “the clinic” on that dark October morn.

Craig appeared sometime in mid-May amongst the flowers, birds and bees. As he blossomed from small, unwarranted bump to grossly oversized cyst, our friendship, too, budded from amicable acquaintances to business cohorts. I didn’t understand then the true reason of his existence, but was too afraid to pop the question in case he was in one of his touchy moods.

Now, it’s one thing to have a chip on your shoulder, but a cyst on your back is just as cruel, especially when he constantly comments on your weight or your abnormal hip-to-thigh ratio (whatever). All of his quirks were soon to be as trivial as any time Rick Perry decides to open his mouth regarding immigration or just any topic in general.

It wasn’t until September he decided to reveal himself to me entirely.

“Joe,” he whispered to me in one of the several accents he used to cover his true identity. “I need you to listen carefully. You’re not going to realize it until it’s too late and I’m gone, but they will come for me. I’m going to give you a set of instructions you must use in order to beat the system and break free.”

Naturally, I had no idea what was going on and whether or not the little, black fiends were using him to set me up! (The fleas are constantly seeking revenge since the last time mom took me for a dip!)

“Break free from what?! You don’t understand, I’ve tried everything to open the front window and it just won’t budge, just like Lil Wayne!”

“Forget the window, Joe! Now, I can’t tell you exactly when, but you will be caged and I’ll be gone, and if you want to escape without contracting the mange, you must heed my advice.”

“The mange!!! Isn’t that what Amy Winehouse died of? Yikes. I’d rather yodel the Bible in its entirety than catch that dreadful sickness!”

Craig said that my buzzed haircut couldn’t have come at a better time. This was our chance to begin the arduous process of tattooing the map of the clinic onto every centimeter of my body. For weeks, Craig and I would meet at 2:00 a.m. (making sure Mom was in a state of REM), to discuss the prison’s schedule. We would work diligently until dawn on the tattoo to ensure every little detail was precise and in place.

Finally, the day had come. Like he promised, I hadn’t realized it until G-mama waved goodbye, and the gas mask was on my snout. It was only hours later that I awoke to the barks and screams of labradoodles and cock-a-poo’s, some smelling like ginger and mint, and others who had yet to receive the clinic’s cleansing ritual. I knew right then I had to get to a mirror and fast.

I was groggy but knew I wouldn’t last long in this prison if I didn’t make a move. Like clockwork, the guards came by for roll call; I made one guard aware of my “IBS,” and was promptly escorted to the yard. I made a mad dash to the specific spot where Craig had hidden a piece of broken glass. This was my chance to read the exit route strategically placed on my back. It only took me seconds to navigate the blue and black lines, but I knew exactly what I had to do...

Yet, low and behold, when I arrive back at my cage, I overhear a conversation; something about my G-mama was on her way! Could it be true!??

When I saw her petite frame strut through the door, I kind of felt like a dinkus for letting Craig talk me into tattooing the map of said prison onto my entire body to only be busted out of the joint by my dear old grandma.

But hey, what are grandma’s for?

Needless to say, Craig is now just a vague memory and in his place? A pretty unruly scar. When my grandchildren ask of its origin, I’ll tell them I arose victoriously from a prison break…(I can only hope they don’t have the television show on DVD that far down the road....then they’ll really know I’m a fraud-sickle! )