My Life with Grumpy

Dear Mother,

I don’t know if you remember me.  I am using this to communicate with you as I see my owner typing on this every few days.  This is Atticus, your first born puppy; the “big one” as they called me.  This did leave me to have body image issues later in life.  Trust me, don’t ask what they called you - I’m not allowed to say those kinds of words.  Let me tell you a little about my owner:  he refers to himself as the “Youngest Grumpy Old Man.”  He thinks he’s hilarious.  I really don’t get a lot of his jokes.  Anyways, he stepped out for a minute.  I really wanted to go along with them, but he said that I had to stay home.  Therefore, instead of chewing or relieving myself on something he cherishes, as a form of separation anxiety[1], I have commandeered his computer and am writing my own post.  Impressed? You should be.  I mean, I don’t even have thumbs[2].

Sorry, I’m back.  I swore I heard him, or a monster of some sort, come to the door.  What were we talking about?  Ah yes, my owner.  I really resent the term “owner.”  However, I really don’t know what else to call him.  “Daddy?”  Nah, that sounds creepy.  “Master?”  This is not an episode of “I Dream of Genie[3].”  I shall now call him “my assistant.”  He serves me my meals, regularly rubs my belly[4], and drives me places - even if it occasionally includes that odd smelling place where the man in a white coat pokes me with a needle and looks in other unmentionable areas[5].  But what I don’t understand is the hypocrisy of the relationships with dogs and people.  He yells at me when I have slight digestive issues[6], and says I stink.  Listen pal, dogs can smell up to 45 times greater than a human[7].  I used to be able to talk, but catching a whiff of some of the things he lets go has killed that area of my brain.

I'm really quite photoge fotojenik photojen...good-looking

And another thing - he keeps saying I’m a dumb dog.  They don’t think that dogs aren’t intelligent?! I’m writing a blog!  And I’m funny too!!  Wanna hear a joke?

Knock Knock…




I’m back, sorry, thought there was someone at the door. 

Anyways, on to my next beef[8] with this guy.  The latest thing he is complaining about are veterinary costs.  As noted before, I’m fine if he wants to no longer take me there.  Apparently all that place is about is taking.  By that I mean, I used to play with two very nice older dogs, Jack and Cedric[9].  From what I overheard, both these guys had to be “put down” at the vet.  I’m guessing that means the vet is running some doggy hoarding operation out of their basement.  I don’t know how they haven’t been caught; people bring their sick, old dog, and the vet just “puts them down” in the basement.  This is to speak nothing of the fact that when I was a puppy, let us just say I had more parts prior to going to this awful place.

So I don’t get why he gets so upset.  They say dogs are “man’s best friend.”  He lovingly refers to me as his “pal.”  I don’t really get that much out of the relationship.  Sure, we have fun, but the times like right now, when he leaves me home gets me angry[10].  Maybe that is what this “PayPal” thing should be used for - to pay for his pal; not to buy Season 4 of “Home Improvement.”

We really aren’t that different.  I’m pretty sure he and I have the same amount of fur, yet he doesn’t have “Frontline” medicine put on his neck.  We share the same culinary tastes…although, I think I am a bit more open-minded when it comes to eatingggggggg.  Sorry, my tail started wagging and it affected my typing.

I do enjoy my life here.  However, I wonder at times about my brothers and sisters.  We each had our family name written under our tails, so with each dog I see, I try and check to see if we’re related.  Don’t feel bad for me - they let me sleep on a nice bed, and if my “assistant” is a good boy, I occasionally let him sleep on it.  The floor is better for my back anyways. 

I guess I had better start wrapping up this letter.  As I really have no sense of time, it must be about 400 hours since he left.  Say hi to everyone for me.  Don’t let anyone touch my toys. 

-“Good Boy” Out.

p.s.: I may as well post this on his blog.  Goodness knows the usual readers haven’t had any decent humorous writing in a while, so why not allow something from another species?

[1] Anxiety? No, this isn’t the vacuum cleaner or the door tapping in the breeze; more like separation aggression.

[2] Speaking of which - are the joints in my front “knees” or “ankles?”  I thought I had four legs, but that means I’m writing this blog with my feet.  Weird.

[3] I’m well educated despite being only eight years old.  What can I say, Labs are some of the most intelligent dogs.

[4] Don’t knock it ‘till you’ve tried it.

[5] I’m a dog and that creeps me out. 

[6] Meaning, I have a lot of gas…in case you aren’t following.

[7] Got my facts from this Wikipedia.

[8] Why is this a synonym for “having a problem with someone?” Beef is not a problem, it is a beautiful, beautiful thing.

[9] Cedric actually hated my guts.  He was a grump.  But for some reason I loved him.  Afterall, I'm a lover, not a fighter. Jack was more of my “Special” Uncle.

[10] “Angry” is a relative term.  “Angry” to a Lab is like “content” to another dog. welcomes thoughtful comments and the varied opinions of our readers. We are in no way obligated to post or allow comments that our moderators deem inappropriate. We reserve the right to delete comments we perceive as profane, vulgar, threatening, offensive, racially-biased, homophobic, slanderous, hateful or just plain rude. Commenters may not attack or insult other commenters, readers or writers. Commenters who persist in posting inappropriate comments will be banned from commenting on