What? You want me to do what now?? You're kidding. Why can't you do it? Fine. Okay. I said fine.
Since Herself seems disinclined to write today's blog, I, Roma-dog, will do it.
Meet these guys. The tough one is Bandit. She's all right. I respect her. She doesn't take any guff. Now, it's kind of a mixed message when the guy puts the water down in front of me and then she tries to bite my head off, but I get it. It's a turf thing. I'll just go over here to this other water bowl. Fine by me. Okey-dokey.
The other two don't bother me. They're okay by me. They mop the place up with that Muzzy character. Muzzy. What's the deal? Everybody's got to grab that kid by the ears and talk in swoopy voices. "Oh, Muzzy, you're sooo cyooote." I was never cute. Cute is kids' stuff. I had a litter of puppies and was shipped off to the shelter before I was year old. But I was patient. I didn't bark or whine or do any of that stupid doggie stuff at the shelter. I waited until the right mark walked in the door and then I bagged her. I wanted one I could push around, give the cold paw to, and get away with murder. And I did, too, for a while. Then came the training and commands. Pheh. So we compromised. I do what Herself says—most of the time. Now I pretend I can't hear her. After twelve years, can you blame me? I have heard it all, sister. Believe me. It's enough to make a grown dog cry.
The gig hasn't been so bad. Herself is all right most of the time. And the kid has learned to stay out of my face, too. There's plenty of food and walks. I bag a lot of treats on those walks, too, let me tell you. The "sad eyes" bit slays them every time. "She looks so worried." Heh, heh. Suckers. And I've traveled. I've played in snow, splashed in the ocean, and hiked the Appalachian Trail. I've lived in two time zones, eaten rat poison, and been sprayed by a skunk and lived to tell about it. No big deal.
All right, already. Enough. Where's my cookie?
Photo of Bailey, Maggie, and Bandit courtesy of Scott.
Photo of Roma courtesy of Herself