Hello! It’s me.

Sometimes when I walk, I have a purpose, a mission, a reason for being. I’m busy assessing threats or looking to lick up bird droppings, that kind of thing.

Then there are days like today.

For instance, this plant sure looks a lot like cilantro, #amirite?

Cilantro makes me think of guacamole, and guacamole makes me think about avocados, and avocados make me think about mmmmmmmmm avocados!

Unfortunately, if you keep daydreaming about cilantro you are bound to run your schnozzle into a sharp thorn.

Ouch!

Then I see paw prints … Wendy … Wendy??

I dream of playing mixed doubles … Wendy and Dash against the fabled Chubacabra and a smelly, nasty Yeti. Final score … six-love, six-love.

Daydreaming leads to real dreaming …

… dreaming of sharing a generous sampling of avocado slices with Wendy.

Hello! It’s me!

Sometimes it seems like the world is on fire. Blazing. Planet heating up. Book of Revelations bad. Jacksonville Jaguars kind of bad.

If you are like me, you have to turn off Facebook, CNN, and Food Network’s Holiday Baking Championships. You simply desire something more nourishing than the vapid emptiness, the empty calories associated with modern media consumption.

For me, that something is a veggie bone.

These things border on being succulent, until you look up the word “succulent” and realize that the word “juicy” is in the definition. So let’s just say that these things are delicious and addictive. Anything that is addictive can be stolen. Theft is a threat, no different than rusted metals or the dreaded Chupacabra.

Dad thoughtfully offers me a veggie bone every third day #calorieconscious. Immediately, I begin assessing the threat of theft.

It’s off to the races!

Oh God, Dad’s following me. DAD IS A THREAT. I decide to hide in the Master Bedroom.

I didn’t think that the bedroom was secure. I mean, no room is really secure! I needed to hide the veggie bone. But where?

Yeah, that’s the ticket. The couch!

Oh for the love of God, I dropped it.

Time for a new game plan. I picked up the veggie bone, and attempted to hide it in the other end of the couch – nobody will notice me there.

Nobody notices that I’m hiding it here … oh wait … Dad again!

STOP LOOKING … JUST STOP IT … STOP LOOKING.

It’s the old couch accessory gambit … set up a diversion with the pillow coupled with the effective shrouding of a blankie. That should work, right?

Nope. Time for Plan D.

STOP LOOKING AT ME – I’m trying to hide in this blankie, don’t you get it?

I sensed that Dad was going to keep hawking me – maintaining a constant and annoying threat. I needed to develop a game plan, a diversion. I plotted my next move.

And then, I “dashed” into the dining room. And while Dad looked at an abandoned blankie, I turned left and never looked back.

That, my friends, is how you avoid a dire threat. Via careful planning, swift decision making and a modicum of deception, I was able to enjoy my veggie bone in peace.

Hello. It’s me!!

On a random trip into the closet, I found this sock in one of the bins, so I selected it as a preferred chewie, eschewing the lovely stick sitting right in front of my face.

You see, pre-laundered socks have just the right combination of male foot sweat and embedded particles to really tempt the taste buds.

And I honestly don’t understand why Dad would sneak up on me and demand that I relinquish my newly found hosiery.

Then this happens.

Dad you ?$&# stop taking my sock … stop it … MINE!

Ok, yours.

Hello! It’s me.

Could somebody please turn off the rain machine that has consumed the Pacific Northwest?

I mean, unlike humans, I have to go to the bathroom in that stuff. The whole situation is depressing, if you ask me!

Hello! It’s me.

Mom and Dad have been all-a-flutter about their trip to the Czech Republic last week. Yap yap yap, like they had the greatest time ever all because they left me behind so they could travel 6,000 miles across the globe.

They liked eating breakfast at the hotel.

And I thought to myself, “well, that looks really good”. Then they kept yapping about breakfast.

I told Mom that I enjoyed my meals while Mom was away.

But then Dad tells me he had goulash soup.

By this time, I’m just getting sick and tired of the whole story.

Of course, it doesn’t end there. Apparently this creepy guy invited Dad in to enjoy deep-fried cheese.

Then this lady asked Dad to partake in Schnitzel.

I said, “Did you see any sights?” Dad shows me this …

Not a chupacabra … but one must be on edge at all times, I suppose.

So I rephrased the question. Any pup-related content over there in Prague?

Wow.

Based on that sign, it’s any wonder this pup was “holding it in”.

Then Dad gets back on the food train …

Bored silly, I just kinda tune out, to be honest.

It never seemed to end … the food … and the stories about food.

And the beverages … apparently Dad imbibed a bit.

Exhausted, I demanded that Dad show me a few images of Prague. Apparently, Mom and Dad did more than just eat food.

Do any of you have friends who brag about their trips? They show picture after picture, boring as heck, with no context surrounding the images other than “We had the best time ever, the BEST!” And all you can think is “ENOUGH ALREADY”? Well, that’s what my state of mind was until Dad showed me this …

OOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH … rusted metals from the Czech Republic … ooooooohhhhhhhhhhh.

Now this trip sounds INTERESTING for once!

So I opened up a bit about my end of the bargain … hanging with Carol and Grandma!

And Dad showed me the convention hall he gave his talk in.

I’m glad Mom and Dad are home. Things are back to normal, my friends. They finally stopped talking about Prague and finally started talking about me.

Hello! It’s me.

I’ve got no idea what is going on. Mom and Dad are somehow able to write blog posts on an airplane on an iPhone, Grandma and Carol are thoroughly entertaining me, and the press is telling me that the worst windstorm in history was nothing more than a teeny puff but the storm that came on Friday was never supposed to happen and yet spawned tornadoes and more severe weather alerts than in the past 21 years combined.

Whaaaaaaat?

It is like a witch rode in on a broom and turned everything upside down!

As long as the witch keeps the kibble coming, I am amenable … so long as the witch isn’t truly a CHUPACABRA!!!

Hello! It’s me.

I have to say, at eleven months of age I’ve had a lifetime of experience. And I’ve never experienced anything like this Presidential Election.

From what I understand, we have a choice … here’s the choice.

I’ve been told that the next campaign for President begins on 1/1/2017, so at least we’ll have a breather after this extended exploration of our less-than-best selves.

It’s my point of view that canines don’t exhibit the kind of behavior that wannabe global leaders exhibit, with two notable exceptions.

1. Some candidates and some canines do not pay taxes.
2. Some candidates and some canines haven’t got a clue about proper use of email servers.

I wanted to go out into the world and prove that we can place our hope in the Canine.

Let’s just say things didn’t start off on the right foot.

Yup, that’s twelve pounds of punditry lettin’ me have it for no good reason whatsoever.

CHILL, DUDE!

Other pups were downright aloof.

I waited for this pup to absorb my soulful countenance … nothing.

Suddenly, I found myself chasing magenta-colored commerce. I put my faith in gifts to fill the ever-growing hole in my heart.

The public stared at me. I sensed they were judging my need to prove that Love ruled the world.

#ClickItOrTicket

But commerce, that soulless siren designed to enrich a few while offering the security of a generous minimum wage for many … well, commerce led me to this.

The carrion symbol of death wasn’t far behind.

With quad legs a-tremble, I searched for Love in a scorched wasteland of “gotcha” infused political moments. Would I find my beloved Wendy? Or would I find Frank from Men in Black?

Turns out Love exists, if only you look for it in the comforting glaze of a pug featured in a movie about the potential destruction of our planet by an unfathomable alien force.

Let’s be honest, my pups. Neither Presidential candidate is going to destroy the planet #somebodypleasevalidatethishypothesisforme. Somewhere, there are (Wo)Men in Black working behind the scenes to protect us from potential catastrophe.

Armed with this knowledge, I sleep well at night. I hope you do too.

Hello! It’s me.

A full fifteen weeks after having my “essence” removed (rendering me potentially useless to the fabled “Wendy”) and it is back to the grind. In my case, a dietary grind.

If Dad thinks he can withhold food, well, he has another thing coming. I’ll eat anything at this point.

Yeah, look, there’s dog food right in front of me. And while I am starving to death, I don’t have to eat regular dog food. It’s not a requirement. For instance, that red plant looks pretty tasty to me.

It’s depressing to have to eat red plants.

This is what I’m trying to avoid.

So I soldier on.

We went for a ride earlier today. As Dad left the bank, I made my request known.

FEED ME SOMETHING!

Dad misinterpreted my request as “Do You Want To Go For A Walk??”

Fortunately, we walked past the grocery store … “SIR … SIR … COULD YOU UNBOX THE RAMEN NOODLES AND ADD BOILING HOT WATER AND LEAVE THE STEAMING PLASTIC CONTAINER ON THE FRONT SEAT OF MY CAR? YES?! K-THANKS, AND WHILE YOU ARE AT IT PLEASE REMOVE THE SEAHAWKS APPAREL BECAUSE I AM A PACKERS FAN K-DUDE?”.

That didn’t turn out the way I wanted it to. Maybe it was the Seahawks comment.

On to bigger and better things. I tried to gnaw on a painted wall.

Here’s the thing about painted walls. They lack flavor. I’m thinking you baste the wall in Buffalo Wing sauce, heat it to about 350 degrees, and serve the wall with an ice cold Rainier Beer and a Bloomin’ Onion, amirite?

On two occasions, Dad had to pry a half-eaten burrito out of my mouth – somebody missed the garbage can, so why can’t their error fill my empty tummy?

Here’s another example of what happens when your tummy remains empty for an extended period of time.

That guy’s so hungry that he’s got straw sticking out of his underwear.

My trip through town ends with a random sampling of acorns.

Remember when I was young, cute, still a Man? I required a steady diet of string cheese and diced ham. And Dad obliged. Now I’m like an elderly Man cracking open Brazil Nuts at a Christmas Party.

Hello. It’s me.

We inch closer and closer to Halloween … my second Halloween. It’s a time when playful children dress up in costumes and beg for treats, things like Mounds Bars, for instance. In my case, Mom & Dad dressed me up as a blueberry … all tricks, no treats.

Mom say when I stop picking at my wound, I can take the cone off. This is my desperate response to her proclamation.

Dad sees the world differently than Mom – he lets me waltz around the house, cone-free. You’d think I would welcome the level of freedom Dad offers. You’d be wrong. He follows me around the house and grounds like the press corps following a Presidential Candidate through the diners and drive-ins of Iowa. It’s exhausting – I’m constantly looking over my shoulder for the next violation of my privacy.

I pine for the days when I could just hang out and chillax. Remember the good ‘ole days, when I could introduce myself to you with a gleeful “HELLO, IT’S ME!!!” Or I could even offer you this dull look … still fulfilling the introduction to every blog post I “write”.

Today, however, this blank look is reserved for Dad, who took me to the vet a week ago and things haven’t been the same since. Thanks. Dad. 7-10 days with a cone couldn’t come to an end soon enough. And if I keep rubbing my undercarriage on gravel, 10-14 days with a cone couldn’t come to an end soon enough.

Thanks. Dad.

#PrayForMe

Hello.

It’s me.

Ow.

Pardon me if I’m not in a talkative mood right now.

The day started off like any other, or so I thought. Then Dad takes me for a ride, and ten minutes later, I’m at the vet.

They took my temperature #again …#ow. Is that really necessary?

Dad leaves. Where are you going, Pops? Ok, I guess I’ll hang at the vet with Shelby. She likes me.

I was stuck with a needle.

Ow.

Feeling … very … scheeeeeeeeeepppppyyyyy.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Hours later … OW OW OW OW.

Ow.

#owie.

I look around for help, but my vision is limited by what I am told is called a “cone of shame”.

What the %#&? is going on?

Mom says I was neutered. I’m not sure what that means, but I’ll tell you what … I feel like I was surgically robbed of bodily possessions that made me feel like a MAN.

A MAN doesn’t look like this.

God help me.

Ow.