That's it! Stick a fork in me, I'm done. I was brought into this family an only child, and I intended it stay this way. I was a good sport. That night that Dina and her ballooning stomach disappeared and Joe came home the next day with a blanket with a new smell. I thought it was a present, and I gamely sniffed it and slept on it. Only to find out that the smell on the blanket belonged to this little thing called Wyatt, who no longer is little, is fast approaching my weight and height, and is starting to get grabby with those grubby fingers of his (he picked my nose the other day, no really, he did; you can pick your nose and you can pick your dog, but you can't pick your dog's nose!). I mean, I'm barely getting used to the kid.
And what do they do? They do this: Due date: April 4, 2008
The next time the back gate is left open, I am so out of here. I could live as a dog on the mean streets of San Francisco. I might miss my wireless internet, but I could still do it...
Wyatt celebrated his 1st birthday by sharing the news
Supposedly, still part of the family...
When the rest of the family went to New York, I got dropped off at Camp K-9. I'm a regular there (they love my name), but whenever I leave, they hand a report card to my parents. I'm sorry, I'm being graded? For being locked up in a kennel, made to play with other 30 lbs. or less dogs (ok, no comments from the peanut gallery, I AM actually still considered a small dog despite the growing size of my tail), forced to take a bath with their industrial shampoo, eat their bulk-bought food, and follow their arbitrary rules???
Apparently, I'm losing my luster. Normally, I get all 'Excellents' on my report card (yes, I'm graded like an elementary school student -- remember that? When you were a little kid, and it was all about getting an E, an S, or god forbid, a U???). Well, while I'm far from Unsatisfactory, on my latest report card, instead of an Excellent, I got a Very Good. And for what? For mealtimes.
Perhaps they don't know me well enough? That I am like a 130 pound actress, not fat, but certainly not uber-skinny, so spend most of my day pondering what to eat at the next meal and longing for carbohydrates, only to be greeted by the same low-fat fare (dry kibble for me; poached fish and steamed veggies for the actress). Meaning that I don't have time to be picky about my food because I'm in a perpetual state of starvation.
So no man, you can't diss me on something like 'mealtimes.' My attitude? Sure, it might constitute a U. But not the food, dude. Not the food.
I spent last week in New York, and wow, did I have a blast. I could go on and on, but I won't. Instead, let me tell you about the, mmmm, for lack of a better word...oddest thing I saw while visiting the Big Apple.
Picture this: Dina is pushing me in my orange Maclaren stroller downtown after a lovely day at the Central Park Zoo. Now, you adults don't really understand being in a stroller. But you're about waist high, maybe even lower. Anyway, I make more eye contact with labradors than I do with any people (actually, that would be labradors in San Francisco, small teacup things called dogs in New York City). So anyway, we're walking down swanky 5th Avenue, past Henri Bendel's, Harry Winston, etc. etc., when I see this well-coiffed woman walking our way. She's in a beautiful summery silk dress, mostly of yellow. And she's got that New York style (you know the kind, right? The kind that takes more energy than California's are willing to expend while throwing on their fleece and tevas; ok, sorry, that's just Northern California; Southern California would be tank top and flip flops).
And then she sways her lanky arm down, and I swear to you, she scratched her crotch.
It was unabashed. She just totally gave a double scratch (meaning she scratched twice, not just once -- if it was once, you could pretend "oh my gosh, did I just touch my crotch? I was just fluffing some lint away!"). No, it was a "geez, some pube must be out of whack down there because I've got a bit of an itch." Not a full-blown itch like an "I have crabs" itch. Just an itch like the pubic hair was maybe twisting the opposite way out of the follicle than it's natural curve meant it to be.
It was like her own personal greeting to me: "Welcome to the big city, kid!"
Does this look like the face of a dog that likes to run?
Two days ago, it was like a hundred degrees out. Okay, I exaggerate a little. But I'm covered with fur, so it felt like it. I was resting comfortably on my perch (the corner of the sectional couch that gets just the right amount of shade and sunlight, ahhhh...), when Dina says "C'mon girl!" Thinking she was going to take me a walk (because the truth is that my walks now consist of her opening the back door and telling me to go pee in the backyard), I jumped up excited. Then she took me to the car. Well, that's okay, too, because sometimes Dina takes me on errands.
But then, we end up at Crissy Field, which I *heart* sooooo much. But we didn't go to the beach. Instead, Dina takes my leash off, then starts running. Freaking out, I ran after her...and after her...and after her...for what felt like an eternity, but she says I'm a drama queen and it was only a 2 mile run. I'm sorry, but when exactly did I announce that I liked to "run"??? Let alone multiple miles???
I seriously need to call in a human trainer. Someone needs to talk to them and set some boundaries. In fact, I just got back from my Saturday jaunt at Crissy and instead of getting to play on the beach like usual, Dina and Joe took me for a 3 mile run.
I am so pissed off I can barely even look at them.
