Hail, kindred spirits!
‘Tis I, your Caninite (get it?), your favorite talking dog (I hope!), Carll’s sidekick (whom he occasionally kicks). After all your inquiries about my well-being – thanks – I opted for a group reply rather than time-consuming one-offs.
Top line: Henry is fine. That’s what humans say: “I’m fine.” Means nothing. Sometimes it means the opposite, as in, “Let’s move on.” Jane is great – tender, gentle, consistent – and Carll is – OK, I guess. He feeds me and takes me on walks in the woods, which I adore, and grooms me now and then, which I don’t. At six-thirty a.m. (I’m punctual, to within a minute or two), I clamber onto Carll’s work-bed and settle onto his head, which is trying to close its eyes. I lick his ears. He groans but lets me. “I’m exhausted, Henry, I was up at three, please.” These muttered supplications move me not. Six-thirty is wake-up time – hasn’t he read Ben Franklin?
Of course, I have my way. It’s not easy catching extra winks with a dog on your head. (I’m up to twenty-two pounds: soon, enough already.) “OK, OK,” Carll winches himself out of bed (I said winch, not wench), slides on his superfluous slippers, and shuffles into the kitchen, which is colder than the rest of the house for some reason. I await breakfast with impeccable and irresistible decorum, cocking my whiskered head to accelerate food production. Begging is an art. Ask charmingly and only a hard-ass will deny you. If I don’t charm, I starve – either that or turn savage and be “put down” (a canine euphemism, inapplicable to humans). So I charm – like nobody’s business (these human expressions, where do they get them?).
Carll’s canine cuisine has simplified (a polite verb). He used to really prepare dishes, different daily, with eggs, chicken, beef, yogurt, peanut butter, last night’s leftovers. He boasted about it in a missive – what a guy! Now it’s a mix of kibble and broth (plus a multi-vitamin in the morning), the same twice daily. He ascribes this change to my sensitive stomach – for a few days I was vomiting every morning – trust me, I didn’t like it either. A consistent diet was recommended by some online dog-guru, which was just what Carll wanted to hear. Now slopping the same ingredients into my tin bowl isn’t reprehensible laziness but kindly consideration. That’s the human trick: change the words and you change the facts. I mean really!
No matter. I eat what I’m served, then whimper and bat my eyelids for tastier fare. And keep growing. I overheard Jane whispering worriedly to Carll the other day, “How big is he going to get!”
On the defecation front, I’m pretty much done with accidents unless I get distracted or annoyed. Sometimes, neglected, I dump a few Tootsie-Rolls by the door as a reminder. I’m not often neglected, but you can’t stop bad habits too early.
My obedience training is going OK, I guess, notwithstanding my exuberance in puppy class. I don’t consider compliance obedience but practicality: follow the food. I’ve heard Carll calling me a “rice Christian.” I have no idea what that means.
My proprietors’ only failure is on the grooming front. My wavy chestnut-brown hair grows fast. Carll and Jane were told by my breeder, in no uncertain terms, I was to be brushed daily. Two days a week is more like it, and by then my hair is matting and I’m not half as cute. I dislike grooming but cuteness, as I’ve suggested, is my coinage. Cuter equals better fed, more petted. So Carll and Jane should get cracking.