Alex Terrgi here. I took my human to the park today. It’s not a dog park, where dogs get to run around wherever they want. It’s a human park, which means us dogs have to wear leashes. Still, it has good smells and also other dogs. Some of the dogs are friendly, some are barkers, some are smellers, and some seem to have murder in their hearts.
A Labrador named Dublin was there, and he made a big fuss because his human wouldn’t let him jump in the pond after a duck. A big fuzzy dog named Enormo was at the park too, but we didn’t get too close to her, which was fine with me. Even though she was on the other side of the pond from us, I could still smell her, and she smelled pretty angry. Also her slobber trailed behind her for miles (I swear) and I could feel the earth shake when she walked. I’m pretty sure she would have smashed me if we got too close.
The dog I liked best was a Beagle named Betsy. She reminded me of my dear departed fur-sister Goody, and I have always liked beagles. They are the best smellers around. Betsy alerted me to the smell of rabbits, who evidently frequent the park at night.
Nothing smells like rabbits except rabbits. I like rabbits. Even better than squeaky toys. Maybe next time we go to the Human Park the rabbits will show themselves in the day time and I won’t have to wear a leash, and then … well, I can dream, can’t I?
Alex Terrgi here. Coughing up green stuff may not mean what you think it means. It doesn’t always mean pneumonia. Sometimes it just means you chewed your soft and squeaky toy, who you lovingly called Mr. Snaky while he still had his squeakers, into tiny green bits of fluff, most of which you spit out on the rug for the vacuum cleaner, but some of which went down your throat and got stuck there. Until you coughed.
So don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. If you want to worry, worry about Mr. Snaky. I don’t think he’s going to make it.
Alex Terrgi here. My life is pretty good. Sometimes it’s so good I have to do a rub and roll on the rug. So I go to the living room where there is a cushy rug that smells like a happy dog, and I roll around on it until there is even more happiness rubbed into it.
Although my human doesn’t seem to see the happiness – all she sees is hair. I feel so sorry for humans sometimes.
Alex Terrgi here. I like toys that squeak when you bite them. They sound like I think mice or squirrels would sound if I could catch one. My human doesn’t like “squeakies” (that’s what she calls them) because she says they hurt her ears. So she gives me these things she calls “bones” except they’re not real bones, just pretend ones. I want a squeaky toy!
My human writes poems she calls haiku. She seems to like them, so I thought of a haiku just for her. Here it is:
give your dog a toy
dogs get bored just like you
chew your own bones
Alex Terrgi here. Despite what humans think, dogs can do math. We can count. Let me illustrate. Every morning after my human makes her disgusting swill called coffee, she reaches for the jar on the counter that says “Cookies” on it. (We can read, too.) The jar doesn’t contain human-type cookies, though. It contains dog cookies. So when my human reaches for the jar, I know she is going to give me something yummy.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but the word “cookies” absolutely means MORE THAN ONE COOKIE. When this morning ritual began, my human gave me two cookie treats from the jar every morning. Sometimes she even gave me three. (See, I told you dogs can count.) But recently she has cut back on the cookies. Nowdays I only get ONE! (Which is less than 3, also less than 2. More math.) This is not acceptable.
She says it’s for my own good. I don’t know where she gets her ideas.
Alex Terrgi here. Yesterday my nose was warm. This makes my human nervous. She kept feeling my nose then shaking her head. Meanwhile all I wanted to do was sleep, and her continual nose-touching was kinda irritating. Even though I knew she meant well.
Today my nose is back to its usual temperature. Thank goodness. If it had stayed warm she might have decided to take me to that horrible awful no-good place called The Vet.
I think sleep is the answer to everything.
Alex Terrgi here. My human says everyone’s tastes are different, which makes her sound like she’s easy to get along with. But I know this is not always true.
Take her attitude toward one of my favorite things: cat poop. I love cat poop – its taste, its smell, its shape, its general wonderfulness. So rich, so meaty. It makes me happy to roll in it, lick it, swallow it. In my opinion it’s the best thing about cats.
I have no idea why my human does not approve. So much for tolerance.
Alex Terrgi here. My human says I snore. And sometimes I twitch. And sometimes I even bark in my sleep.
I don’t tell her that sometimes she snores and twitches too. (Although I’ve never heard her bark.) The main reason I don’t tell her is she does not understand Dog Speak and I can’t speak Human. The other reason I don’t tell her is her snoring and twitching don’t matter to me. She can snore and twitch all she wants and I will still love her and want to sleep in her bed and in her lap.
I think she should copy my feelings on this matter. She would sleep better.
Alex Terrgi here. I like to cuddle with my human. She is soft and warm and good-smelling. Most of all, she is mine. I’m pretty sure she feels the same way about me. She tells me how much she loves me all the time. One of the things she says a lot is, “Alex, you are one of the best dogs of all time.” This is nice to hear, but sometimes she feels it necessary to add, “You are in the top three, Alex. You, and Goody, and Zipper are the best three dogs the world has ever seen.”
Hmm. I sort of understand about my fur-sister Goody, who died a few years ago. Goody was a great dog, no doubt about it. Best smeller I ever met. So I guess I can share the honor of Best Dog Ever with Goody.
But this Zipper dude, I don’t know. I never met him. He was my human’s dog when she was a little girl, from when she was 5 until she was 13. She told me all about him. He was a wiener dog. You know, short legs, long body, floppy ears. She has written lots of nice stuff about him and about how much she loved him. She even has a picture of Zipper in a frame on her writing desk.
But here’s the deal – this was a Very Long Time Ago. Zipper is dead. There is no way I can win Best Dog Ever when I have to compete with beautiful memories of a dead wiener dog.
I’m here NOW!
Alex Terrgi here. A couple of days ago it was a holiday called Thanksgiving. It consists of a lot of food, which is the best part. But also my human’s family tradition is for everyone to say what they are thankful for. They think this is just for humans, but I think I should join in too. So here is my annual “I am thankful for” list:
I am thankful for:
- my human, naturally, for her kindness and generosity and love
- my human’s lap and her bed, which are both soft and warm
- my human’s granddaughters and grandson – E who is 11, D who is 8, and J who is 5. I get to see them a lot
- my human’s granddog Jackie Muttmix, who is my best friend even though she’s rambunctious
- my full food dish
- the smell of cooking
- my dog-walker lady who takes me on walks through my neighborhood
- my neighbor dog, a Scotch Terrier named Wallace
- the dog park that Jackie and I go to at least once a week
- the elk who poops in the dog park, so I can roll in it and smell great
- my full water dish
- my big red chair in our living room
- my brown chair in my human’s office
- my human’s green chair which I snooze on when she’s not looking
- my squeaky toys, especially when they still have their squeakies
Wow. I have a great life! No wonder I am thankful.