Oh,
Master.
Oh, supplier of the things necessary for my survival-
my sustenance, my hydration,
my stuffed birds and hard balls on which
to gnaw.
Why have you wronged me so?
After all that I’ve done in attempts to make you happy.
For nearly four years I’ve offered to help you clean,
admire the amazing way you feed yourself using your thumbed hands and utensils,
attempt to introduce myself and learn something about the guests you have over,
and comply (80% of the time) with the rude commands that you bark off at me all
day.
I have tried so hard to show you my love and appreciation.
But apparently my “unsanitary” tongue does not do nearly as good a job of
cleaning up crumbs as your “Swiffer”,
you order me to leave the room when I stare at you while you’re eating (you
yell about how I am “begging”—pshh),
you keep me from recognizing any guests by swatting my fatty behind every time
I try to sniff a guest’s aroma beneath their hips,
and I sit, stay, lay down, be quiet, and fetch a great majority of the time
when you ask me to!
So here I am, confused and a wee bit sad.
After all of the ways I try to love you,
I’d think you’d reward me and at least allow me to sleep on something softer
than that dreadful dog bed (I swear, that thing feels like it’s stuffed with
old Milkbones instead of soft stuffing.)
But nope.
50 nights of sleep on your new white sofas and that was enough to ruin any love
you had for me.
I can’t help it if drool seeps from my mouth while I sleep.
Nor can I help it if my dirty paws pass dirt onto the things I touch.
Why punish me like this?
Heck, this is torture!
I’m stuck sleeping in the same room as you at night now,
and I use the term “sleeping” loosely.
Maybe I could get some sleep if you humans stopped snoring for five minutes.
Gosh.. If only I could have woken up five minutes before you found me sleeping
on the sofa for the past two months.
Hmm.. I got it!
I wonder what you’ll do if my 95 pounds of fat and fur start sleeping on your
bed now…
-Amber
