This week Daddy is unavailable, so, I Tesla, the goodest boy of all the evers, Daddy’s dog, and his Favouritest best boy, will tells you all a story instead. Don’t tells Daddy, it’ll make him sad. From when I was just the littlest pupster I still remember my doggo Mama. We lived in a barn and a nice man took care of Mama while she took care of me. But one day hoomans came to take care of me.
I was nervous, but I kisses lady and I kisses little girl. They smiled and cuddled me and it was gooding on dog, all the gooding. But as we left I felt sad, because my doggo Mama wasn’t coming with us. She smiled and let me know that it was OK, the hoomans would take good care of me.
I puked in the car that day. A lot. I’m not ashamed to admit it. I thought that they would be angry but they weren’t. They gave me rubs on the ears. Rubs on the head. And they gave me the kisses. Even when they had to pull over because the blanket filled up with puke and spilled onto the seats they weren’t angry.
They are My hoomans. I loves them. Daddy brings me for walkies and saves me a bite of everything he eats (except the crazy spicy stuff, he never ever lets me try that). Mama gives the nyummies and the plays and rubs and hugs and the kisses and the treats for good boys. I’m a good boy. I am. Me. I’m a good boy. The goodest, I’ll have you know.
We have been to the beach and we’ve watched all of the Die Hards together, twice. I’ve read both the cornflakes box and the spaghetti box. I even know how to make sushi by watching it be made until it’s given to me. I now have him so well trained that I don’t even have to watch anymore, Daddy always leaves me the end bits.
Mama, my hooman Mama; My Mama is always sneaking me corners of nyummy meats and cheese and an egg or two. They are so good to me, and yet I still rebel against their wholesome caring. Why? It’s just, sometimes, sometimes it makes me sick. I want to run with the big dogs but they’re scary, and smelly.
Sometimes I scare old hooman ladies, though, and their rat-dogs when we round a corner on walkies. The nervous ones will always start yapping and the old lady will always pulls her rat-dog back, at which point it now always thinks that’s it’s defending her against me and Daddy on our walkies just because she pulled it back. So, like, I’ve seen action. Believe me, I’ve done stuff.
Lately though, I’ve been feeling kinda lost. You know. One of those runs of months of effort and months more to go and with nothing right now, or even soon. Am I just hitting a wall or is this what getting old is going to be? Can’t I enjoy myself, on my own terms? I don’t ask for much. I don’t need much. All I want is to be treated like a higher being, while being bold all the time, with unlimited walkies and treats and few slices of bacon wouldn’t hurt your chances.
Yeah, I have it pretty good. Hugo, from three doors down, howls all the time about how bad he has it. I know things, remember that. I also know that I have it good with these hoomans. Mama and Daddy loves me. THEY LOVES ME AND I LOVES THEM! They’re my favourites. Oh. I almost forgot; „All hands on Dog!”
OK. This. Ok, this. This is the best invention ever. At any time, at all, once any hooman says „all hands on dog” then, immediately, all hoomans in the room have to put all their hands on dog, i.e. Me, and rubs me. All of them. Together. At the same time. Again, I have trained them well. However, admittedly, I haven’t quite yet figured out exactly how to make a hooman actually say „all hands on dog”. Research continues.
Uh-Oh, Daddy just called me. Gotta go. I’ll be back if I can. Message me: