Hello, bonjour. This is Vegas the Goldendoodle, though I prefer Vegas the Princess.
It is day 73 of the pandemic, or as it should be called, day 73 of retraining my humans.
I will not lie to you, they are not that smart, especially the fat, old one. Did you know they can’t get my name right most of the time? They call me Veggies, Veg, Vegimatics, the Veginator, Veggers, Vegster, Veggie-veg, Weg, Wegies, Wegimatics, the Weginator, Weggies, Weggers, Wegster, Weggie-weg-Mcweggies (like I’m Scottish), little girlie or old girlie.
Old girlie! Is that not the worst? However, at least I am no longer called the Spazadoodle.
So you see what I have to deal with. Mon Dieu.
Before this whole thing started, I had them trained pretty well, but something had to change with them being home all the time. Now, I need a treat every time I see one of them. In the old days, it was only a treat when someone came home, but since they’re home all the time, the rules, they must be different. You’d think this would be easy.
But no, I have to bark at them every time they come down the stairs or enter my daytime sleeping room. Worse, sometimes they just pet me, like I am asking to be petted. Unbelievable.
Then there’s the new rules for feeding me. Having them at home all the time, making noise, nearly stepping on me, patting me in the wrong places or failing to pat me every hour, well, it is enough to stress out someone of my age. So, I ask for some human food because I need, how do you say, compensation.
But when I go into the kitchen, wagging my tail, looking at them with my big brown eyes, do they feed me that hamburger? Non. When I sit nicely, do they feed me a plate of spaghetti? Non. When I bring them a valuable chewy and drop it at their feet, do they give me some super delicious and wonderful smelling Ukrainian sausage? Non, non, non.
Sometimes they give in and feed me tiny morsels while they gorge themselves like alley dogs, but somethings they just stare at me like cows trying to figure out how rockets work. It can be very frustrating.
However, I am making progress on being carried up and down the stairs in a timely matter. It turns out, they seem to like to be barked at. Who knew? So, when I am ready to be properly carried up the stairs because, you know, my joints, they hurt, all I have to do is bark. Loudly. And like little puppies, they come.
As well, this whole, stuff-me-into-a-stroller-thing has stopped. Why they thought this was a good idea is beyond me. So I can’t walk to the park, it hurts too much, but jamming me into a rolling prison wasn’t the answer either.
They need to carry me.
This, they simply do not understand.
Worse, sometimes they just ignore me. Why they do this, I do not know, but I think I will have to kick up my silent farting campaign to a whole new level to get them to notice me.
In the meantime, I will continue to teach them how to treat me better. I am, after all, in charge of protecting the house, chasing away the Orange Cat, barking at the paperboy who has decided to return, and making sure no one sneaks in at night to steal my chewies.
It’s a tough job, made tougher by the fact that I hurt most of the time and sleep a little more than when I was a puppy. Still, even if I am 13 years young, I won’t give up trying to teach my humans to be better humans.
Now, I must rest and dream of racing, leaping over the fence and finally getting the Orange Cat.
Stay safe, stay healthy, and respect the new world.