Hello! It’s me.
That’s the aspirational “me”, if you will. The one Dad expects me to be. I’m four months old now. Dad thinks I should act like a four year old.
Each day starts out just fine … we wake, we chill.
And with each passing each day, my bladder enables me to progress further and further through the day. Three hours, easy. I’ll even ask to go outside to eliminate unseemly bodily substances. Progress. Maturity. Sanity.
Then, early evening arrives. Something changes. It’s a primal thing, really. Have you ever seen what happens to those Minions characters when they turn purple? Yup. That’s what happens to me. It’s water. I drink it. I literally get drunk off of it. It’s a bladder-busting experience that results in accidents in the house. Worse, for some of my toys (like this Terrapin), the outcome is terminal.
But eventually, the bladder passes all excess fluids … it always does, by hook or by crook. When that happens, I return to the peaceful pup that you’ve grown to know and love.
I know, I know, it gets better. Until then, it’s restricted water intake interspersed with bouts of mania.