I admit at first I was very nervous. Boxes started showing up at my house and began walking out. Pretty soon the place was empty. Empty? I had to go to the vet several times. Not my favorite place. They injected a foreign object in my shoulder. That hurt, a lot, and people wonder why I'm irascible. Then there was that long ride in the strange car, (what happened to the Venza?) to the noisy place with all the yellow cars and roller bags. And what up with the plastic box, seriously? Putting my fleece and t-r-e-a-t-s (which, BTW spells "treats". I CAN spell. What do you think I am - a cat?) in the crate didn't fool me you know. I knew you people were up to something.
It was a long dark ride in the big cold cylinder. I was in the can for days and days. Then I was unloaded on that moving walkway. No place to pee. Dad getting me out of the box and then cramming me back in. Oh, the dogmanity! What I wouldn't give for a nice patch of grass and maybe a bully stick. Another long ride in the plastic box. At least this time I could smell my people nearby.
And then we arrive at this strange new place. I canvas the joint. There are some familiar smells: mom, dad, chow, toy. The important things are all here. But I stick close to mom for a few days - for her protection. Someone's got to do it. I abstain from eating until I'm sure it's all right. I try it hesitatingly, just to be sure. I take another bite, maybe one more. One can't be too cautious. Tastes all right but a treat would be better.
The first time we go outside it's tail blowing. I'd never seen (smelled) such exotic and alluring things. There were so many new smells. So many things to explore. It was crazy! I had to make it my mission to canvas the neighborhood, identifying and then, obviously, staking my claim on every bush, step and pole, pretty much anything at the foot and a half level.
At first we were walking all over the city, a different route everyday. I couldn't keep up with the posting demands. Don't these people know it's my mission in life to place my mark on everything? I only have so much, um, ink. But now we've staked out a territory and I leave my calling card daily.
A few things I recognize, ah yes, dachshund (there's lots of these), 13 years old (dog years), female, brunette, Virgo, prefers long walks at sunset, doesn't like to be wet (who does?), cheese versus bacon. Definitely not my type. At least not like the hot aussie bitch I've got back at home. Her name is Jewel. She's a red head with blue eyes and quick on her paws. Gets me every time. There are a lot of things I don't understand. Weird scenes waft in and out of the transom of my mind. Like what the heck do these people eat? Why is there so little grass? Where the hell is my ball?
And can somebody please explain why all the dogs here are wearing hoodies? Geez! They all have some form of clothing on. No joke. And most are being carried around in handbags. Handbags! I like to think of them as "snackbags". Yes, I'll have another snack bag if you don't mind.
I admit it took me a little while to get comfortable here. I had to pacify myself to cope. I confess I may have a diminutive dependency issue. You see I was taken from my mother far to young. The breeder was trying to pass me off as a six week old so she could say I was born on Valentine's Day. As if I needed some cheesy marketing ploy to sweeten the deal. Have you seen my puppy pictures? I was adorable. Still am.
So yeah, occasionally I nurse on my fleece throw, cub style, paws gently clenching the fleece along with the suckling. But let's be clear. I make that fleece my bitch first. A good twenty-minute humping (that's two minutes in human time) and I've got it right where I want it. And don't act like you don't have some compulsive co-dependency issue. I've seen how you people drink.
Everything was settling nicely. I had my minions trained to open the door to the backyard whenever I wanted them too. Sometimes I'd make them do it just to see if I could. (I enjoy power struggles.) I even had my second favorite human, aka Dad, succumb to me being on the bed, my rightful place, clearly. He's a sucker for my belly. Loves to rub the belly. Who doesn't? Everyone succumbs to the belly sooner or later. I had the schedule set: announce I'm awake and ready to be fed at 7a, escort me outside, nap, parade me through the hood so I can leave my calling card, treat, nap, kisses, ,escort me outside, lavish me with attention, nap, eat dinner, catch my favorite show (American Idol), outside, nap. Did I miss anything? Oh yeah, nap.
Then all this shaking crap happened. It was like the whole place had an itch and couldn't stop scratching. I smelled something I've never smelled before...fear. It was everywhere. The place was saturated with it. I didn't like that one bit. I decided it was time to go back. It took a little convincing but ultimately I got my way.
I have to say I kind of miss it there; nobody hassles you. Here total strangers try to approach me. They try to stick their hand in my face. Who knows where those hands have been. In Japan they're respectful, even a little in awe of me. They admire me from a far. Plus there are so many outstanding smells there. I can do without the shaking thing. I'm hoping we go back soon.
Can a brother get a treat?
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