You may know I was adopted by this crazy tall woman about a year ago. It was a pretty good day. I was tired of hanging out with all those ruffians and defending myself at the “humane society.” (We don’t want to be treated humanely. Treat me caninely. More treats. Fewer clothes. But that’s getting ahead of myself.)
I may only be 32 pounds, but the word terrier is just the dog version of terrorist. I can be, let’s just say, a bit impatient when a larger dog tries to make me his boyfriend. So, when I saw Tall Lady peeking into our kennel, with one bat of my eyelashes I knew she was a gonner.
Charm. I gots it.
Coming home to Tall Lady was cushy. She kept me in the kennel at night for three days; today, you’ll find her clutching the edge of her bed. I’m comfy on the other two-thirds. There are treats, walks, a nice backyard and she doesn’t mind that I can’t go 10 minutes without touching her.
What? Don’t be so judgmental. I can be tough and needy.
In turn, I’m a good guard. Postman? Squirrels? The Siberian huskies next door? Leaves? Sometimes even my shadow? Yeah. They know my bark and they know it well. This is my house. That is my street. I’d really prefer if the other dog owners of the neighborhood would ask before just casually strolling by. (Rude!) And they let their mutts pee on MY bushes. (Ruder!)
I drink extra water those days.
But people, someone has to talk to her. This is getting out of control. I am not a doll. I am not some drag dog who wants to be dressed up in tiny hats for the rest of my life. I AM NOT A VILLAGE PERSON. I have a reputation to maintain! I am a survivor of the pound! I am a guard dog!
I am not a damn cowboy!
Mamas, don’t let your doggies grow up to be cowboys.
Send help. Bring treats.
-Willie Nelson Mandela.