I am participating in Pet Tails over at More Than Cheese and Beer. It is a monthly writing challenge where we write from the perspective of our pets. Each month will be a new challenge. The first month is an introduction. Our pets are supposed to introduce themselves, tell us what they are, where they live, who they live with, what they like/don’t like, hobbies, favorite quotes, etc.
My name is Wicket, and I’m here to tell you that life as a dog isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
I am forced to eat the same hard, tasteless, morsels of food every day. They look like something a smaller animal pooped out. The people assure me it’s nutritious, but trust me, it is not haut cuisine. How would you like to eat trail mix every meal for the rest of your life? You’d probably live, but why?
My hair cut makes me look like the dog from Silence of the Lambs. No wonder people think I’m a girl. There’s so much fluff down there, I haven’t seen my junk in years. What’s left of it, that is. There’s no dignity in looking like a cotton ball, even if I can rock a tail pom like every poodle’s wildest dream. Nobody takes the little, white, fluffy poodle seriously. But hey, I’m half schnauzer too. Maybe it’s because they’re German, but no one messes with a schnauzer. They have beards, like real men. I wish I was German.
I take my responsibilities as a dog very seriously. Someone needs to alert the people whenever someone walks within 50 yards of the house and may or may not be thinking about knocking on the door. This includes other people, dogs, cats, rodents of any kind, the occasional bit of debris kicked up by the wind, plastic bags, small cars, statues of dogs that look like me, and polka-dotted unicorns with shifty eyes that only I can see. I am very good at my job, and as is the case with a lot of essential workers, chronically under-appreciated.
In addition to my duties as watch dog, I also provide an alarm service for telephone rings and email alerts. Never miss a phone call or an email notification again. If you’ve left your phone in another room and it rings, I will howl like a she-wolf in heat during a full moon until it stops. This goes for text messages, email notifications, twitters, tweets, and any other nonsensical alerts come to your various devices. It’s an invaluable service, and I provide it free of charge. All I ask for is a little respect.
I am constantly surrounded by morons and sycophants. The people are useful to have around for walks, food, and as bed-warmers, but as far as I can tell they serve no other purpose. I don’t begrudge them though. They are just extremely primitive beings, vibrating around the house, without rhyme or reason, entirely oblivious to those of us who would like to be alone with our own thoughts. The two little ones don’t even appear to be in control of their bowels.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for taking a good crap on the carpet every now and then, but they don’t seem to relish in it they way they should. It just seeps out of them like lava. Where’s the plotting? Where’s the malice? Someone should really sit them down and explain the fine art of revenge pooping. I’d do it, but I can’t really be bothered.
The other dog is a walking punch line, starting with his name: Ziggy. What does that even mean? He struts around the house like he owns the place, flexing his muscles, trying to impress every squirrel that shakes her tail at him. He is about as alpha-male as you could possibly imagine. He’s even tried marking on me before. He only made that mistake once.
If he can’t mount it or pee on it, then he’s trying to eat it. This dog will eat anything, including his own feces. I’ve actually had the great pleasure of witnessing him eat his own poop, get sick, vomit up the poop, and then eat it again. Once bitten, twice…bitten. I guess.
On top of that, he is shameless about playing up for the people. He’s always licking them, even when they don’t have food on their faces. He sits on their laps every night, even when there is a perfectly comfortable, unoccupied, sofa on the other side of the room. He does tricks like “sit” and “roll over”. It’s whoring, really. And for what? A butt scratch? A tummy rub? No, thank you. I have my pride.
Me? I’d rather lay, on my own, in a dark room, thinking deep thoughts. I’ve spent the last several years composing my memoirs in my head. As soon as I figure out how to open the laptop, I plan to write them down. I feel there is much I have to offer the world and no way to reach the masses without going through the fools with whom I cohabitate.
They have no interest in philosophy or the arts. They frame paint that the little ones smear on paper with their butts, then have the nerve to feign disgust when I do the same on the carpet. Philistines. All of them.
Then when all I want to do is curl up on the sofa with a bone and watch my favorite movie, G.I. Jane, they insist on talking throughout the entire film.
What is a Demi Moore film without the winning dialogue? Pointless. That’s what. My life is just one big, muted Demi Moore film that seems to go on forever, like Striptease.