You might wonder how I'm typing this message on YOUR blog, since I don't have opposable thumbs and all. Ever since you taught me to dance for cheese, though, I've been learning other tricks while you weren't looking. I figure there's a filet mignon in there somewhere, if I can just find the right trick.
This blog post isn't about tricks, though. It's about disappointment. Make that disappointmentS. Plural.
Almost every day you and Dad get me all excited about going to the park. You make this huge production about changing into your tennis shoes, while I stand there with one of my front paws in the air, wondering if this is one of those times I'll get to go. You deliberately drag out your motions, taking your own sweet time, finally wandering downstairs in the direction of the shelf where you keep my leash.
I see you reach for it, and I almost can't contain my excitement, wondering where this adventure will take us. Will I get to meet some new playmates? Will there be cheese? Filet mignon? A cat I can chase?
Then, being the mistress of torture that you are, you make me SIT and BE STILL while you put my collar on. Do you realize just how difficult this is? I'm about to pee on myself, Libby is already barking her glee from the backyard, and I have to SIT? and BE STILL?
Finally, after a drive of almost a mile and half, we get to the park. Oh, the beautiful lake. How I love to swim in it. I chase Libby down the path, looking for whatever fun we came for.
And all we do is walk. And walk. And walk. Sometimes I use my superior directional capabilities and try to lead you back to the car, sure you and Dad have made a mistake in this little outing. But no, you continue to walk AWAY from the car, and I have no choice but to go along, because you two are sure to get lost on your own.
And we walk.
By the time you FINALLY make your pitiful way back to our vehicle, my little legs are just about worn out, my tongue is lolling, and all I want is a sip of Dad's beer. Add that to my growing list of disappointments.
Then there's the basement. When you head toward the basement door, I get so excited that I lose traction on the hardwood floors (add THOSE to the list too, by the way) and my feet slip out from under me, which apparently is a source of great entertainment for you and dad. I get all worked up because I think maybe, just maybe, you're headed to open that great big door, the one that makes all the noise, and I can grab the rope and hang on for dear life while you take me on a mini-roller coaster ride up in the air.
More often than not, you're going to put clothes in the washer. Or the dryer. Or take them out. Or search futilely for something that should be in the toolbox but isn't.
And now you have this machine down there. It doesn't do anything useful that I can determine. It makes no noise, it produces no food, and I can't even lie down in your lap while you're on it.
I should have known that all that cheese would come with a big old long string attached.
It's tough being a dog.