Grady, Goober and the Chahooahooah

“Jack, stop scratching!” Goober shouted. The old hound tried but the invasion of fleas had overwhelmed him. No will power or the commands of his master could stop them from biting and him from scratching.

Grady came into the living room. “What are you yelling about?” he asked.

“It’s Jack. If he don’t stop scratching in here, I’m gonna get rid of him and get me one of them Chahooahooahs.”

“It’s Chihuahua,” Grady corrected. “Ain’t no such thing as a Chahooahooah.”

“Tomater, tomahter.”

“You can’t just change how you’re supposed to pronounce a word.”

“Ever hear of phonetics?”

“Of course.”

“You pronounce it like you spell it.”

“So, how do you spell Chihuahua?”

“C-h-a-hooahooah.”

“That ain’t spelling that’s pronouncing.”

“No, that’s phonetics. But anyway, I don’t care, I’m still gonna get me one if Jack don’t quit scratching.”

“You even know what a Chihuahua looks like.”

“Yeah, I saw one in a magazine.”

“Well, I’m not sure that’s the best dog for living out here. They’re little bitty critters.”

“That’s why I want one,” Goober said. “A little dog won’t have as many fleas as a big dog.”

“But a Chihuahua’s a Mexican dog.”

“So? I ain’t prejudishatul.”

“The word’s prejudicial, but that don’t matter, you don’t speak Mexican.”

“Well I don’t speak dog and Jack understands me.”

“Oh, yeah? Who’s still scratching?”

“Jack!”