What? Shag carpeting could be coming back. You never know.
Now, Gretchen seems a little frustrated with me these days…keeps muttering stuff like, “Omigod, MORE fur?!!” and “Why NOW? You’re just gonna grow this fluff right back next month!”
Whatever. As long as I get to lick something while she’s torturing me like this.
But I think the real reason she’s so uptight is, she NEVER sheds. That hooman of mine has had exactly TWO “haircuts” (what hoomans call shedding) in her entire life. She told me that herself.
She got her first one when she was 15 (that’s 2 in dog years).
Yep, just a pup
She kept the same “look” for the next ten years, slowly letting her fur–I mean hair–grow long again.
No more shedding, but sometimes she wore things on her head. Hoomans are weird.
Then, ten years after her first shed, she shed just the top–I mean, got it cut. She calls this her “bangs.”
I don’t get why she calls ’em that. They don’t seem very loud to me.
For the next 35 years, Gretchen only shed the teensiest bits of fur. Like this:
Seriously?!
But NOW, 35 years (that’s 5, in dog!) after shedding cutting her “bangs,” Gretchen’s decided to stop even THAT amount of shedding. She’s letting her top fur grow out.
It ain’t pretty.
Yeah, good luck with that.
What I want to know is, why’s she all hot and bothered about MY fur when it takes her 35 years to make up her mind to deal with her own?
Hmph.
When it comes to fur–how can she possibly compete with me?
I guess she’s just jealous. Yep–that must be it. Poor thing.
I know, I know. This isn’t my blog. It belongs to my hooman–y’know, Whatsername. The one with the treats.
Pictured: Whatsername’s hand
Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but ol’ Whatsername’s been pretty much missing in action lately, blogwise. Something about “I’m not really feeling the blogging right now,” or “It’s complicated.” Whatever that means.
So I’m stepping in. Y’know, just to keep this spot warm till Whatsername comes back to curl up in it. I can make myself comfy anywhere.
Hey haters, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.
So. That’s it, really. I’m just here to say–stick around, ok? My hooman’s probably just out back sniffing something reeeeeeeally interesting. She’ll be back when she’s good & ready.
The other day I heard someone howling, and…hey. Wait. It wasn’t me!
I hurried over to check and found my hooman giggling at ANOTHER DOG on her little tappity-tappity thing. “Hahaha,” she was saying, “can you believe this?”
Wait–some dogs can get away with this? And get something called 250,000 followers? Pretty sure “followers” are edible.
Well, that dog just crunches my kibble. When I make that noise, my hoomans yell “HUSH!” at me. They certainly don’t turn me into a picture on the tappity-tappity thing for thousands of other hoomans to laugh at. That Zeus dog is FAMOUS. And me? I’m just in the dog house.
Are you KIDDING me?!
I mean seriously. My hoomans make me “heel” and “come” and “sit” everywhere I go. We practice in the house…
Better be some treats at the end of this recall.
…out on walks…
Who’s a good girl? Yeah, yeah, yeah…
…even on the one “Staycation” they’ve taken me on! (This is a thing where hoomans leave their house and go stay in a different house. Lots of cool new stuff to sniff. But I still had to heel and come and sit.)
OK, OK! I’m sitting.
No way would I EVER get away with the stuff that Zeus dog pulls. Every now and then my main-walky hooman lets the leash loose to take my picture, ’cause I’m so pretty…
Even prettier with flowers, am I right?
…or because the trail is too rocky for us to go side-by-side…
But I get to go first!
…but once we’re past that part, it’s back to heel and come and…
You know the drill by now.
I don’t even get to chase whatever little yummy crawly diggy thing made that hole! Bet Zeus would get to eat it for breakfast.
I’m telling you…it’s just NOT FAIR.
So I’d just like to say to Zeus’s hoomans–Can I come live with you? I wanna howl and dig and be a doggy diva too, and my hoomans just don’t UNDERSTAND.
My one consolation? That thing they call “college basketball season” is finally over, so I don’t have to wear this stoopid scarf every time their “Tarheels”–whatever they are, probably NOT edible–throw that round orange thing at each other.
Maya here. ‘Bout time I checked back into my hooman’s blog. Missed me?
A lot has happened since I first took over my new realm household a couple of months ago. A LOT. …and no, I’m not talking about “Georgia,” or “Insurrection” or “Amanda Gorman,” or any of the other things my hoomans are always blabbing about. I’m talking tummy rubs, of course. I’ve had about 4,000 of those.
Ready for #4,0001. Don’t be shy now.
But also–well, let’s be real. I’m talking TRAINING.
For some weird reason my hoomans have taken it into their minds that I need to stop knocking people over with the strength of my affection act a little more “polite,” whatever that means. Actually I learned what it means: lots of walking in circles on my leash. That seems to be called “Heel.”
I always try to keep a half-step ahead in case my hooman needs protecting. I don’t know why they don’t appreciate that more.
And there are lots of other funny words, like “Sit” and “Stay” and “Come.”
I get a little distracted on “Stay.” But I love “Come”–there’s usually a treat when I do!
Some of it–honestly? Pretty silly. Like “Down.” Although I guess I appreciate how they want my snout to be closer to all that delectable rabbit poop…
Mmmm…snackin’ size.
But I gotta admit, they’re really starting to get the hang of this TRAINING thing. Look how long of a leash I have them on sometimes!
More time for me to snack.
So all in all, I guess I’m pretty proud of ’em. Sometimes they even have their own partly-grown hooman puppy to come over and play with me, though apparently he needs a muzzle.
Maybe he bites? They should be training HIM.
So we’re all good here. I may check back in again from time to time and let you know how they’re doing. Main thing? They’ve learned the proper way to address me. When I come in from relaxing in the yard, I’m called “Miss Mossy-Butt Bossy Mutt”…which I’m pretty sure means “Your Majesty.”
The name’s Maya. Got any treats? Oops, I mean…pleased to meetcha. My new human, Gretchen, has been spending way too much time on this tappity-tappity black thing, so I thought I’d take over for a while. My house, my rules.
I just got here, less than a week ago, and I’m satisfied that I am now Queen of the Household. I just need to vent a little about the humans who brought me to my new realm.
Our first meeting. I allowed them to rub my belly.
They SAY they are dog people. Malamute people, in fact–I’ve heard them bragging to other humans that I am actually their third Malamute. They speak often of a certain “Mickey,” “Molly,” and…whatshername…”Juniper.” Mickey apparently died young, whatever that means. Molly lived as long as she wanted to, apparently a long-ass time.
She was, it seems, also a Queen. Survey your realm, Queen Molly!
This “Juni” seems to have acted more like a cat, if you can believe that. Seems she was very, very, VERY fluffy. Didn’t like getting dirty or wet. (Ughh. Can’t believe I’m talking about cats.)
Like I said: fluffy.
She did like strong wind, they say–probably the only time the air could ever penetrate to her skin!
Hahaha, silly Juni. Should’ve shed harder.
Anyway, it’s just hard to believe these new humans of mine are so “experienced.” They seem awfully untrained to me.
First of all, they brought me here to my new realm not just in a car, but on a boat.
Something about a “fairy”? Didn’t get that part.
I was not a fan of this. I drooled a LOT.
That’ll teach ’em.
Once established in my new dwelling, they keep trying to take me places on a leash. Oh, humans. What’s the good of a leash when there are so many deer and bunnies to chase? I can just smell ’em!
You may drop the leash. Really. I’m good.
And when we do go places? We WALK. No running! I hear both of my humans bragging about how they used to be “distance runners,” but apparently now they’re too old and washed-up to do more than trot with me. No chase! No catch-me-if-you-can!
They even have to enlist their son, a grownup Human Puppy, to play Tug o’ War with me.
They also complain that I want too much attention. Well, what do they expect? Molly and Juni had each other to play with. I have only…sigh…them.
Maybe they’ll procure me my own puppy to play with.
The house is full of Molly & Juni’s puppy pictures. Well, how nice for them. Nobody wanted me when I was a puppy. That’s why I came to live here…and that’s why I’m for sure Queen of this place!
Never going anywhere again, furever and ever.
Oh please, don’t mind me. Walk around.
Anyhow, just wanted to say, to any of you other Kings and Queens out there: feel free to share your stories about how you whipped your humans into shape! Might be good for a howl.
Wing's World 