The family and I were watching a spot of TV the other day when this advert about “Camp Canine” [“it’s exactly what it sounds like; a summer camp for dogs!”] came on and, as if on cue, every single member of my family pounced on me with the same exact question; “Why can’t you be like the dogs on TV, Feni??”
The animals in question happened to be bounding across a field of some sort, their tails magically wagging in sync with their perfectly perky ears, and I couldn’t help but be taken aback by the blatant hypocrisy I was being showered with.
I mean, aren’t you guys the ones constantly complaining about the unrealistic standards celebrities set for the rest of the human population?? How supermodels with their size-zero hips and spotless faces aren’t “realistic”?? How it’s unfair that y’all are compared to overly-made-up actors and actresses??
And yet you don’t miss a beat when it comes to rating your own pet against a telly-pooch who has most definitely been caked with at least twenty different creams and lotions before filming so its fur appears all glossy for the cameras. Tell me I’m not the only one seeing the ridiculousness of the situation!!
Honestly, for such an “evolved” species, you guys have a lot of growing up to do, that’s for sure!!
For those of you who have ever -and I mean EVER- thought to yourselves “well, it’d sure be nice to be born a dog, wouldn’t it??”, I’d like to set the record straight and assure you that the life of a canine is, in fact, the EXACT OPPOSITE of “nice”.
Even if you push past the usual complains of not being able to speak, play Mario Kart or eat Chipotle [which are all soul-crushing in their own right], there’s the whole issue of privacy.
From the moment I wake up, my every move is observed and scrutinized by at least three different people and that’s not exactly the kind of attention I’m looking for.
Whether I’m snoozing or pooping or licking my you-know-what [three of my most-indulged-in activities, in that order], you can be sure that there’s at least one pair of nosy human eyes catching every movement [ha!! A “nosy pair of eyes”!! The English language is as strange as it is enchanting].
This is about as pleasant as it sounds [i.e, not pleasant at all] and I’d definitely like all this excessive attention to stop ASAP, thanks very much.
If you feel that it’s time animals are guaranteed the right to privacy and a stare-free poo, do take the time to sign the petition I put up in the hopes that we get together and change things – before it’s too late…
I was casually minding my business earlier this morning when it suddenly hit me that we are four days from Christmas. FOUR DAYS!!
Are you KIDDING ME?! WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN?! WHY DIDN’T I GET THE MEMO??
I mean, I still have SO MUCH TO DO!! There are candy canes to mass order, Christmas cakes to smuggle, Netflix Holiday specials to binge-watch…
Time to get my elf on!
You know how everybody has their own little Sunday schedule?? Like, some people spend the day with their kids, some work on passion projects, some do yoga, yada yada yada.
Turns out, my Sunday activity is sleep.
It’s 3 o’clock in the afternoon and I’m only just waking up and, dog or not, this can’t be the healthiest Sunday ritual.
In my defense, though, this has turned into more of a daily habit, so at least I’m consistent.
After nearly two weeks of discomfort and torture beyond compare, the Lassa has FINALLY gone back home. This is a cause of elation for several reasons, the most important being that I can now watch Masterchef all by myself without having to share the bean bag with another furry mutt.
Life’s lookin’ good, for sure.
Intruder McUninvited is still camping over at my place and the situation is getting worse by the day. I mean, I have more than enough problems [try typing a sentence with paws for hands and then you can talk to me about struggle] without having to constantly guard my territory, thanks very much.
To make matters worse, the dog’s a Lassa, which is probably just code for “walking cloud” and don’t try to tell me that anyone with half a heart wouldn’t melt at the sight of THAT. Really, it’s all I can do to guard myself against succumbing to its intense cuteness while simultaneously safeguarding my turf.
It really is a dog’s life.
I’m TRYING to be calm about this, I really am, but this is all getting a bit too much. I’m a nice dog so I keep to myself as much as possible but this? This is really crossing the limits.
You know what they say, the more you keep quiet the more you’re taken advantage of. And isn’t that what’s happening? I’m being exploited, aren’t I? My personal space is being compromised, my territory is being infringed upon, my oxygen is being polluted, honestly, I can’t take much more of this, I just can’t-
Guess what? Just when I thought my family couldn’t POSSIBLY care any less about my needs and desires [I mean, I only get four meals a day! How do you expect me to maintain my curves if I’m being starved like this?] they go ahead and INVITE ANOTHER DOG INTO THE HOUSE!!
Can you believe them? They had the guts to tell their colleague -not even a close buddy or a blood relation, just a colleague, mind you- that we have the space at our place to babysit their pet for three entire days! While they fly to London and look after their ailing mother or some such garbage! The audacity!
What I really want to know is how on EARTH they thought this arrangement would work out. Tempting a dog into my turf and then expecting us to get along? How stupid are they, anyway?
Look what they’ve made me do; in all my frustration I’ve knocked over a glass of orangeade and stained the tablecloth quite considerably. Ugh, I’ve got to go clean up this mess.
To tell you the truth, I’d rather wash a thousand tablecloths than have to go back ad face The Other Dog, so I guess I’m not really complaining.