H8TERS

Hello. It’s me.

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Yeah, I don’t look too happy, do I?

There I am, running across the street (Dad tells me to “hustle” when we cross the street, so I hustle), when I come across a pleasant appearing middle-aged woman. I smile, as only I can.

She looks down at me, then looks up at my Dad, and says, and I quote word for word (please use your own version of a condescending tone, and please imagine her face turning bitter like she just found out her only choices for President were Trump or HRC):

  • Yeah, yeah, we all get it, your name is Dash and you are so darn cute. Geez.

She then made a motion with her right hand, a dismissive waving motion no less, you know what I’m talking about, right? That’s how she finished her dismissive sentence.

I haven’t been so offended since a random ginormous poodle-mix clamped me to the ground a week ago, jaws locked around my tender neck.

Look, I get it. The middle class is eroding, and nobody is standing up for hard-working folks. Our Government has been bought and paid for by special interests. And the plot for ABC’s “Once Upon A Time” has steered into an unrecoverable hole. There’s a lot to be upset about.

But do not, I repeat, DO NOT take out your frustrations on a 6 3/4 month old puppy trying to hustle across the street so that traffic may progress smoothly. Just like you, I’m trying to keep my feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars.

 

Walking, Yes Indeed!

Hello! It’s me.

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I am told that this is the most glorious spring in the history of the Pacific Northwest. A spring more resplendent than most summers.

All I know is that I spent the month of March in sunny Arizona, and somehow, I brought comparable weather 1,500 miles north.

Or maybe our planet is tilting toward the sun, causing temps to warm. What do I know? I’m just a puppy.

Dad says that when the weather is nice, we must be outside … walking, touring the countryside.

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Sometimes we journey to distant realms.

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Sometimes I get crabby.

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Our adventures frequently bump up against uncertain circumstances.

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But the reward is finding a pot of gold.

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Or getting a quick roll in the sand (visit the website if you cannot see the video).

No matter how you slice it, I need a pedometer.

In fact, I am so brainwashed that tonight at 8:30pm, I rang the bell to go outside, and then put one of Dad’s shoes in my mouth … my little way of telling Dad it’s time to go for a sunset walk … a walk I spent the first 79 steps pulling my own leash via my new teeth.

Tonight, I tried to pull a root out of our gravel road. With a dearth of rainfall, my best efforts failed to extract the cedar-based tuber. You have my solemn word that I will not rest until the rootstock has been pulled. Or the leash pulls me from the root.

Mountain Climbing!

Hello! It’s Me!

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That’s me and one of my fans, from earlier today. You have to understand, people love me, and there is no situation they’d rather interact with me than when I am trying to summit my own personal mountain. In fact, she came up to me and said “Hola perro.” Adorbs!

Aptly named “Mt. Young”, the 630 foot massif was on the agenda for a Friday afternoon clamber.

Aside from lathering myself in tree sap, the climb went as expected. We reached the summit in about a half-hour (that’s 1.8 miles per hour for those of you who are interested).

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My view of the surrounding islands was hindered by a leash. Undeterred, I took in the grandeur of the distant Canadian Gulf Islands and the Vancouver Island / Cowichan Valley area.

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Do you want to know what the best part of climbing a mountain is?

It’s going downhill!

We surveyed the landscape one last time.

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Then Dad called my name.

Dash?

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Do you want to head back down the mountain?

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And so off we went – here’s a video of the dramatic descent of Mt. Young, sans sherpa (please visit the website if you cannot see the video via email).

I know, that’s a lotta action for your dollar!

We got home a few minutes ago. I am resting my muscles, awaiting another mountain climb. Could a summit of Mt. Rainier be in my future?

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Vanquishing Threats With High-Pitched Barking

Hello! It’s me.

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These idyllic spring days warrant a lot of monitoring, friends. You never know who or what is going to try to sneak past your line of sight … deer … chupacabra … or a utility worker checking on gas lines.

This is how I deal with threats … please visit the website if you cannot see this via email.

Now, your experiences may differ, but I’ve found that the high-pitched version of the bark tends to vanquish any semblance of danger. You should see how bees fly away from me when they hear me roar!

I’ll Tell Ya What I Think Of Your Rug

Hello. It’s me.

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Dad says, “I’m going to take a shower, you behave now, ok?”.

Yeah, right!

The rug pad has been bugging me for a long time. Hiding there, never willing to make a public appearance.

Minutes earlier, Dad caught me digging at the rug. He said “no”, in that half-hearted way that tells you that he’s more annoyed than issuing an iron-clad ultimatum.

So as the shower began to saturate Dad with cleansing albeit highly chlorinated well water, I began to cleanse the room of the nuisance hiding under the rug.

It’s amazing how fast the thing came apart. A tug here, a gnawing motion with my teeth there, and the thing essentially shredded itself. It’s not my fault – it’s poor American craftsmanship that should be blamed.

I guess I got greedy when I waltzed into the bathroom, tail wagging. Covered in soap, Dad says “you’re being such a good boy!” He’s praising me, friends. Praising me for my yet-to-be-seen deeds.

Then I rang the bell next to the front door. Dad opens the door to let me out. “Go potty” he says. Then he turns around, and looks in the living room.

It was at this point that Dad started saying words I only hear him say when his favorite sports team blows a lead late in the game.

He said “no” in such an affirmative manner that this time, I believed him.

Let’s just say I steered clear of Dad for awhile.