July 1, 2006--I am still waiting for the fun thing that mommy keeps promising me so she can take me on her excruciatingly long bike rides, instead of leaving me at home, as she has been doing for the past 13 and a half years.
By the way, don’t multiply 13.5 by seven years to figure out my age, because that stupid human theory is all wrong. Yesterday, a woman in the nail salon that mommy took me to where she got her hair ripped off by a nice Korean woman (glad it wasn’t me) asked who that “cute puppy” was. Yup, that was me.
You wouldn’t think so after that haircut, or should I say, scalping, Mommy gave me two days ago. Here is a "before" picture of me (left). I know she is embarrassed to walk down the street with me now, but I don’t care. She keeps coming after me with those scissors to correct her dirty job, but I won’t have anything to do with it.
(It’s pretty funny, all I have to do is flick my neck around and bare my teeth just a little bit, and she gets scared off, ha ha. Humans are so stoooopid.)
Anyway, Mommy says I look like a concentration camp victim. I don’t know what that means, but I don’t care. I heard her elaborate to one of our racist neighbors (she is always harping that any place outside of New York City is racist, by default, that's what happens when you grow up on the upper west side) that I look like I have been starving for years, and my hair looks like it’s falling out in patches.
The reality is that she cut my hair in the bathtub with stylist scissors, because she said my Rastafarian dreadlocks had become “completely out of control,” and in the process she cut so close to my skin, there are these quarter shaped, pink patches all over my body, surrounded by uneven chopped black hair. I look like a black hyena on Mescalin. Or at least, YOU will think you are on Mescalin when you look at me.
Of course I was MUCH better looking before, but what you humans don’t realize, us doggies really don’t give a damn what we look like. You spend all that time, and money on how you look, and you dedicate all that ridiculous real estate to closets to hold your clothes in, but you really shouldn’t be wearing anything, like me.
Now what really counts is how you smell, and the more smelly the better. Otherwise, how can I tell who you are, and what you are thinking?
Back to the point: Mommy has been looking for a sponsor for a bike carrier for me, so she can take me on her trips.
I am not so hot on the idea, but I guess it’s better than sitting around on my butt all day, which has become extremely boring. Plus, it’s automatic every Saturday and Sunday. First she makes coffee. Then she washes the dishes from last night (a whole sink full). Then she takes me for a walk. Since I know what’s coming, I smell every inch for half a mile, so it takes a long time. Then, back home, zip, she changes into that crap that makes her look like a ho, pumps up her tires (which scares the hell out of me) and leaves. For four hours.
I know what she is doing, she is flirting with men, while I sit at home doing nothing.
So even though I won’t be able to run on that contraption, maybe it would be better than sitting here and imagining all the fun she is having without me.
More later, ta ta!
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