The MP (Meal Provider) has promised not to read what I write, so I’m going to start with a complaint. My mates tell me that you two-legs mostly use your blogs to rant at the stuff you can’t rant at for real, because then the food bowl would stay empty, but online it’s the snarky complaints which fill it. Though why you’ve chosen to call the tidbits ‘hits’ I’ll never understand. But there’s lots I don’t understand.
Which brings me right to my first issue: nomenclature. One of my pals is called Spot, another Spike, and a third Potter. The first two names are at least short and sharp, but Potter? What kind of a mugful is that? (Spike claims it’s supposed to be ‘muggleful’, but he’s getting on and sometimes muddles things up. Or maybe muggles them up.)
So they call me Gypsy. I suppose I ought to be grateful that it’s not worse: it could be Greenpeace or Antarctica or something truly new-kid-on-the-block. It could be Obama, for example. Still, two-legs don’t grasp just how important names are. They make you into the dog you are. They shape you. And I would have much rather been the sort of pup who curls up on a nice thick mat by the fire, with one or two sedate walks in the neighbourhood to break up the monotony. Though it hasn’t been too boring in this house, I have to admit: all those kids forever slamming doors and yelling and fighting, and the MP even throwing things. I tell you, I learned very early on how to shelter under a piece of furniture.
Oh yes. The furniture. What’s wrong with those two-legs anyway? Don’t they have any consideration for their fellow inhabitants of the planet? It’s not like it would make that much difference to them to lower the dining room table by ten degrees – or is it centimetres? Then I could finally see what’s happening on the tabletop – maybe help out a bit! As it is, I often get a stiff neck and worry about even more permanent damage. Then where will the MP be? Vets, physiotherapy, massage, pills – the list is endless. Far better to pay for one quick house call from the carpenter. But the two-legs are often so illogical.
And inconsistent. Take the question of food. The MP is always going on about healthy eating and organic products and lots of fresh vegetables. But then what does she give me? Hard, dry, salty, nearly tasteless pellets and tinned mush, when there’s a lovely butchery right in the village. Or a lump of rubber which even she couldn’t possibly mistake for a real bone. It’s no wonder that I’m obliged to run off and forage for the occasional vole.
And then there’s the business with smells. The MP – and all the kids, even the lads – are constantly using the most disgusting lotions and creams and sprays and perfumes. Nor do they stop with a drop or two of the stuff, which might be tolerable, but slap it on till their hair, for example, is positively sticky. Yet when I manage to find a wonderfully fragrant cowpat in the fields, you should hear the shrieks! Then it’s the bathtub, and the MP scrubbing away at my fur, my skin, even, for god’s sake, my private parts till I fear for their soundness. No amount of shivering or yowling can stop her.
It’s not easy being a dog. But a human? Thank you very much, but I prefer to be a rational creature. And leave blogging to those who aren’t destined for Higher Matters.