Well, it never seems to fail, but I am incapable of getting through a week without at least one calamity if not two....or three....or f o u r, ahhhhh. Now, in my defense, I am a dog and, although I am held to higher standards than most dogs, in recent days I have fallen short of the mark... again. Where do I begin?
First off, when I stay home I have a tendency to lay around, on the sofa, on the bed (I prefer my mom and dad’s, but my brothers’ and sister’s beds work just fine). Let sleeping dogs lie, I say. I guess my family doesn’t really care to lay in a soft blanket of Pike fur. But, I think it is amazing, if I do say so myself. Granted, I am biased, but PETA can’t complain if you wrap yourself in fur, if said fur is your birthday suit, right? Why my family takes issue with this fur that I come by naturally is beyond me. Sure, I understand that dog fur in the popcorn can be disgusting but the bowl says everything is better with cat hair.... wait a minute, how come the cat can contribute to the culinary magic of Orville Redenbacher but I can’t? I get yelled at and told to “stay off the bed, Pike,” “get off the couch Pike,” “Pike, get out of the chair.”
DO they really expect me to lay around on the floor with Rome? He is a dog dog like the real kind... thank you, but, NO!
Then, as if it isn’t enough that my family thinks they can order me to get down off the objects in MY house they add insult to injury by assuming they can tell me what to eat. Sure you can fill my bowl with Sensitive Skin dog food and I will gladly eat my 2 cups a day but if you refuse to give me snacks, there is no reason, no reason at all that I can’t help myself to the ESCARGOT ala slugs in our yard.
I am capable of learning, you know, 2 slugs plus dinner ok, 3 slugs plus dinner ok, 10 slugs plus dinner, not ok. Lesson learned. In my defense I didn’t know that when you vomit them up they come up black and green and slimy. They certainly didn’t go in that way. I also didn’t realize my family is nuts and would actually sift through the debris at 10:00 at night and count my indiscretion and then remind me of it for the next 20 minutes while they cleaned it up. Had I known there was a limit to the amount of slugs a 40-pound dog can consume. I would have stopped. I mean, I am sure I would have...maybe. But, that is not the point. Whose idea was it so sprinkle salt on the slugs in the yard in the first place.... dad? It was like a pupu platter for 10 out there; did you want me to let them go to waste?
Then, there is the whole “Pike ran away again” issue that seems to be plaguing me all week. Let me ask you this, my faithful readers, what is the point of a dog license if you can’t go anywhere? I mean you can’t go to the beach. You can’t just cruise the isles at the grocery. You’re not welcome in most places in Hawaii and I for one am fed up. I am a fully vaccinated, slug-eating, rabies-free, licensed celebrity for cat’s sake. I should be allowed to go where ever I want and if I want to run around our neighborhood in the morning and greet the day why can’t I? I heard my mom tell my dad she is worried about me getting hit by a car. Why would she even put that out there into the universe? Is she crazy? On second thought, don’t answer that last part. I won’t tell if you won’t.
Finally, as if this week of let down couldn’t get anymore complicated, I managed to humiliate myself by getting stuck under the sofa. I figured if I can’t lay on it, then, by cat, I will lay under it. Well, the getting under there was easy. The getting out...not so much. When mom and dad came home they called for me and I, too embarrassed by my situation, didn’t respond. They searched all over and thought I must have gotten out when they weren’t looking... admittedly it wouldn’t be the first time. After several minutes of them searching for me I managed to stick my nose out a bit and mom saw it.
My dad lifted the sofa up (he is very strong) and I crawled out. I was, however, plagued by my nagging bladder issue. I was so very excited and scared that I began to pee at the first sign of my freedom. Then, in my traumatized state (not really, but it makes for better reading...) I jumped up on the sofa (the aforementioned sofa) and continued to pee (did I mention it is a down filled sofa mom bought when my family lived in Colorado?) Well, mom freaked. Dad tried to get me outside, but my bladder, already in the on position, stayed on. When I did get outside, I could hear my parents pulling the sofa apart to try and save it!
Figuring they could handle it, I took a walk (ok, so I ran) down the hill, around the corner and over to see my good buddy Olive (who is actually Rome’s friend, truth be told). I heard mom and dad yelling and knew I was in huge trouble and there would not be a get out of jail free card this time around. I was headed to that big plastic crate up in the living room. I spent the rest of the day in a Kennel. Rome’s, to be exact, and for the record, he is disgusting. It is with much resentment, uh, I mean hesitation, that I will say this: I guess laying around like a dog, eating dog food only, staying in my yard and not letting curiosity get the better of me are the lessons I need to learn. However, that kind of lifestyle does not make for very good reading. They say an artist often needs to sacrifice for their work. I have an adoring public to think about, so to this, I say, “bring on the slugs.” RUFF!
