Facebook Mum Under The Impression That She Also Gave Birth To Family Labrador

Facebook Mum Under The Impression That She Also Gave Birth To Family Labrador


Local mum, Annabelle Illet, has been suggesting that her newborn son and 4-year-old labrador are blood related, it has been confirmed through her rampant social media use.

Through posting photos of her son along with the family dog, Bruno, the 32-year-old high-end tupperware saleswoman has led her Facebook friends to believe that she actually thinks she gave birth to both of them.

By using the hashtag #brothers – and referring to them as ‘bros’ – the mother of three real humans is completely ignoring the fact that the dog actually came from a pet store in the Hunter Valley.

Psychologists say she shouldn’t attach herself to the dog in such a way.

“The little woofer is going to cark it in about five years” says local head doctor, Andrew.

“And it’s not just her, the kid’s going to suffer, too. How do you explain to your toddler that his ‘sibling’ has become so old that he can’t hear traffic”

However, Annabelle says no one understands the bond that her ‘sons’ share.

“His big brother is so protective. It’s adorable”



5 Responses to "Facebook Mum Under The Impression That She Also Gave Birth To Family Labrador"

  1. Ron Muppet   January 9, 2017 at 4:36 pm

    Dear Sirs,

    As a Western Australian who has both seen and caused a good many strange things during my largely unchronicled lifetime, I should point out that in this colony before the advent of unnecessary and unwanted interferences like preachers and morals and laws and overly-officious constables issued with manacles, there were some such as this Illet woman who formed strong cross-species bonds of a somewhat familial nature, and before the Governor eventually got around to ordering the building of a lunatic asylum I had the opportunity to meet one of them whose story is worthy of sharing.

    An interesting chap, I haven’t mentioned his name or his exploits before now as I know several taxonomic biologists have made good careers for themselves attempting to explain away his genetic contributions to more than a dozen species already defined by Mr Linnaeus’ classification system, and they would be mortified to learn that all their beavering away and research work has largely missed the true facts of the matter.

    He first came to Governor Stirling’s notice on the voyage out, when the ship’s rats were seen voluntarily hurling themselves off the vessel in calm and non-threatening weather conditions. We knew he had lewd proclivities, and several suspected that the pained squeaking we were regularly hearing below decks had carnal origins, but anything that kept down the number of rats that you needed to fish out of your britches before you could put them and go up on decks on was looked on as a positive, and little was said publicly. That, we found out, was a mistake; as after the rats had all grown weary of molestation and made the leap we found ourselves regularly having to stop to pick up horses which were beginning to also hurl themselves off the ship, and on two occasions even Mr Peel’s milking cows went over the side of their own volition.

    Clearly something needed doing, and the Governor and ship’s captain took firm control at that point, had him charged with ‘Reckless fornication with intent to deprive colonists of sustenance and means of transport’ – a regulation I frankly admit I never knew existed, and one possibly made-up on the spot to deal with the situation, and he was securely fastened to the mast for the remainder of the voyage.

    Ashore, I got to better know this man who one fellow shipmate wag had joshingly named ‘The Faunacator’, and he confided to me that he was looking forward to his new life in the colony because, as he put it, “…those busybody bastards at the RSPCA back home were on to me”. I told him he should be fine here, as from the reading I’d done on Wikipedia before the voyage I’d understood that we weren’t due to get an RSPCA-like organisation in the colony until 1892. He seemed happy to hear that, although somewhat disturbed at the same time – for reasons I couldn’t actually fathom.

    Anyway – and this was what I meant to say before I got side-tracked – although he initially cut a swathe of fornication through the wondrous array of furry mammals he’d joyously located in his new place of domicile, whilst simultaneously throwing systematic taxonomy some curly ones to try and sort-out down the track, he actually ended up doing the proper Christian thing by settling on just one, always carried her lithograph around in his money belt whilst courting and proudly showed it to anyone who was untroubled by letting him talk to them, and eventually married her. Her name was Maude, a delightful free-spirited quokka he’d met on a trip to Rottnest Island, and she – or so he related – had forgiven him his sordid past, and was prepared to take him as her husband. They lived out their lives on the Island, and visitors and old friends who still remembered him could always find him sitting outside his burrow sunning himself, taking a pipe, and ready for a natter about how his life had turned for the better. Sadly, he eventually got mange, the alpha male chased him away from his settled home life, and ultimately he had to be shot by one of Captain Irwin’s troopers for hanging around the Island settlement intimidating people and menacingly demanding a handful of grain or a tomato.

    So, well done to you lads at the Advocate for relating Ms Illet’s fascinating puppy-dog tale, and she should be proud to know that she’s part of a subset of humanity which has a long and interesting history – even if shooting seems to be the logical end-game she’s facing.


    Ron Muppet

  2. Bea Coyle   January 9, 2017 at 5:50 pm

    My dearest Mr Muppet* (it would be presumptuous to call you ‘Ron’?),

    on or about January the ninth ult. you opined, correctly in my view, that this Illet woman will indeed face the logical end-game of being shot. This, you will agree, is the only humane means of reducing, in a Darwinian sense, the gene pool – nay puddle – from which she and all her heirs and successors have and will emerge.

    Fondest fondlings

    Bea Arthur Donan Coyle

    * pronounced ‘MuppAY’ I can only assume

    • Ron Muppet   January 18, 2017 at 1:20 pm

      Dear Ms Doyle,

      Matron has already told me that if I were ever again to attempt to communicate with other made-up people like me I would have to be returned to the Isolation Ward, but you seem like a nice lady and so I am prepared to risk it. Anyway, I defecated in all the corridors last night, hid Silly Doris (we all call her that, although you do get put into restraints for an hour if any of the staff hear you do it) in a broom cupboard, and then set fire to the curtains in the games room, and everyone’s off dealing with all of that and she’s rather forgetfully left her office unlocked yet again, so no-one is likely to know.

      The family’s name was originally spelled Mupét, (so yes, your pronunciation is very good) which I am told comes from the French for “talkative puppet”, and was anglicised by now sadly passed-on Grandpa Jeb Muppet (nee Mupét) around the time of the Battle of Agincourt.

      Grandpa Jeb used to sit me on his knee when I was a nipper and would shake me violently and tell me stories from his younger days, and although the heavy agitation has meant that over time I’ve forgotten quite a bit, I do still recall his tales of how the Mupéts became Muppets.

      Grandpa Jeb hailed from somewhere along the Normandy coast and had long been complaining and fighting against the Romans and their unfair tax regimes which had people like him in western Gaul subsidising lazy eastern Romans by scandalously having his part of the Empire only getting back as little as seven derarii in the aureus from the sales taxes levied during market days or applied to purchases such as tickets to the hippodrome, and he was – as he used to say – “Jolly irritated by the whole rotten business”.

      When the English came for the Battle Grandpa Jeb was already finding being French to be somewhat annoying as a concept, and so he defected one night under cover of darkness, knowing full well that England lay roughly west of Gaul, and as such he wouldn’t be compromising his principles that were based on moderately sound geographical theories. Normally you’d have expect him to be shot as a spy, or at the very least sent to work as a slave in the Cornwall tin mines, but from what he told me between violent shakes the English were absolutely enchanted by his “mirthful and far-fetched nonsenses” – as the now-defunct Londinium Chronicle reported them – and he was offered a job in the new ‘psy-ops’ military department King Henry had only recently created to tackle the French by subjecting them to ongoing repetitious complaint and outrageous fabrication designed to drive them daffy. So on that day, a Mupét died and a Muppet burst forth from the ashes. From what I understand he rose to the rank of full colonel and retired with a sizeable pension and a fully government-funded serf.

      There was clearly much more to Grandpa Jeb than just being at the Battle of Agincourt and working in Henry V’s Military Intelligence – the wealth of rollicking stories he told me about his part in the Great Fire of London, just for example, would embarrass more than one smarty-pants so-called “historian” who thinks he actually knows what happened let me tell you, and if I can evade any future restraining orders the Advocate place on me I hope to be able to include some of them in subsequent stories from my own staid-by-comparison lifetime.


      Ron (you’re a nice lady, you can be presumptuous) Muppet

  3. Joey Joe Joe   January 10, 2017 at 9:41 pm

    Thanks Ron.

  4. Billy Ray Kamiske   January 12, 2017 at 10:13 pm

    How do you have a labrador as a baby without the world knowing ?
    I’ve heard the term ‘He/she’s a dog’ but FFS having something that big is stretching things a bit too much for comfort. Does she also have six tits to cope with future litters ?
    WTF is the world coming to when people imagine being the mother of a dog ?
    Now a kitten. That’s a different thing altogether.


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