She got home this week.
And if it hadn’t been for this 826-pound, six foot, hairy Muppet sucking up all the attention, I might have enjoyed three beautiful She-free weeks with Him. On the bed. In the bed. On Her pillow now that I think about it.
Those were the days. Extra treats. Extra time. Just, extra.
But you know how people have kids and suddenly the sweet, brilliant first-born child that will obviously cure cancer someday and is most likely a MENSA candidate, just suddenly fades into the background and is forced for the rest of their lives to follow rules and be neglected so that their new sibling(s) can live lives of adoration and ease? Yeah that’s happening. I’m living it.
Used to be, I was the novelty. A friendly Jack Russell. Go figure. Intelligent goes without saying. It’s a breed thing. I’m like the dream dog you go to the shelter to find after binge watching seven seasons of Frasier, except you don’t because this combination doesn’t exist in real life and you end up with a boxer and a nervous breakdown.
Just me and Eddie. MENSA dogs.
And in case you’re late to the parenting party, all of my faults are really Their faults. I’m hardly going to cut myself off from recreational activities if I don’t have to. So the yelping, the jumping, the food stealing, the ball obsession, the late afternoon cigarettes with Tag up on the farm – it’s totally on Them.
God I love the twenty-first century.
Bottom line, I’m all They need. They could stuff me when I snuff it; and honestly, why wouldn’t They?
And then that Creature from the Dark Crystal comes along and suddenly I don’t exist. Who gets left at home cause ‘he can handle it’? Who has to cope with the bed under the piano, because the Muppet ‘fits better on Mungo’s bed’? Who can no longer jump on a recently vacated Sealy Posturepedic and appropriately spoon with the man of the house because some guy who thinks he’s Caesar says that dogs sense favoritism?
Oh I’m sensing favoritism alright. Puppy favoritism. The worst kind.
Nothing works. I limped for the first three weeks. Then I hear Them discussing the possibility of me faking it.
Of course I was freaking faking it. I’d have to lose my leg in a boating accident before I limped for real. I shouldn’t have wasted the energy. By that point They were talking to the Creature in baby voices and buying her a toy every six minutes.
Do you know when I got my first toy? I was middle aged. And it was given to her by a lady at one of her speaking events who a) had a HEART and b) read my blog.
How deeply deeply shameful is that? Well, apparently it’s not shameful enough to warrant another one from the people who actually pledged to love, honor and obey me (implicit in contract) eight years ago.
Tennis balls. That’s all I get. Not even good quality ones.
And now She’s back. I’ll be forced to work again. Digging tropicals, hunting mice, providing hunky, premium content photos. For tennis balls and crumbs.
The heart breaks.