A Day in the Life: A Post from Mitch

Oh, hey y'all.  It's me, Mitch.  Well, this is just a crazy time of year, isn't it?  I don't know about you, but this time change thing has really thrown off my schedule, and I've felt so behind in my work lately!  (I've been wearing the tie collar a lot, which means that I've been doing reports, crunching numbers, you know, the usual.) 

And now the holidays are upon us!  Goodness gracious, where has the time gone?  It seems like just yesterday that I was sunning myself on the dock at my grandparents' lake house, trying to keep Fletcher from punching me in the face, and now here we are just a few days from celebrating Thanksgiving with my Aunt Cassie and Uncle Hugh, where I will, among other things, try to keep Fletcher from punching me in the face.

Wouldn't you agree that there's just so much to be grateful for, too?  I mean, there's collars, and jingle, and bones, and couches, and pillows, and ropes.  There's plates full of meat juice and bacon and yogurt-covered pretzels and Kongs.  And there are mom and dads and Reillys and dirt spots.  I mean, what more could a dog want?  (A lake.  That's what.  Hear that, Mom and Dad?)

Well, the real reason that I've decided to take time out of my busy schedule to blog is because I've been reading some really neat posts about people's everyday schedules.  "Day in the Life" posts, I think people call them.  Call me a voyeur, but I just adore hearing about what people do in their seemingly boring, everyday lives.  I'd thought I'd give you a little treat today, y'all, and fill you in on what I do on the average day. 

Okay, so first I have to wake up.  I hate waking up.  I mean, the big bed is so soft and cuddly, and I love lying in between my mom and dad.  But after Mama's alarm goes off for ONE WHOLE HOUR, we get up, and I go outside.  I didn't take any pictures of me doin' my business, because I'm a Southern gentledog.

After that, I stretch.

And I beg for some breakfast.

After that, my mom goes to work, and I go get back in the big bed with my dad.  If there's one thing you should know about our family, it's that we love to sleep.  I mean, we like REALLY REALLY love to sleep.

Well, after Dad goes to work, I usually move out to the living room, where I look out the window and hold the fort down.  I bark at any passersby, and I bark at all cats, and I make sure that nobody disturbs our house.  I especially look out for burglars.  I mean, do you know how many toys I have?  Yeah, they're insured, but still. . .

That goes on for a few hours until Mama comes home, at which point I jump on her and give her lots of kisses.  I tell her about what an asshole the mailman is and ask her if I can please--pretty please--bite him and then she says no and then I go outside.  While outside, I look out for rabid squirrels and birds.

I mean, you have to look out for woodland creatures who have rabies, because if you don't, they'll give you rabies, and then this guy Atticus will have to come and shoot you.  It's true; I read it in a book.

Well, after I know that the coast is clear and there are no rabid attack animals anywhere around, and Mama is  home to guard the house, I can finally relax in my dirt spot. 

I mean, I can lie in my dirt spot for hours.  Sometimes I do, too.  Especially when Dad is watching football.  He yells and claps and stomps and really scares me (maybe Dad has rabies?), so I prefer to spend large chunks of my Saturdays and Sundays out here.  Sometimes the moles come up from underneath and tickle my dog belly.  That's my favorite part.

Now, if it's too hot or too cold or raining or just too wet from rain, I'll relax in the house in my second-favorite spot, the couch.  My Grandma Sue got me this couch.  She's so nice. 

Usually after I've relaxed, I'll try to convince my mom to bake something for me.  I love it when she makes homemade dog treats, but I really really love it when she makes vanilla bean cupcakes.

(Oh man, this one time my mom made those cupcakes for my dad's birthday, and I ate like six of them and buried one in the big bed.  She was SO mad.)

Anyway, then I go back to the couch.

And then I go look out the window to see if my dad is home yet.

And then he gets home!  Oh man, I'm always so happy when my dad gets home.  He makes everything more exciting (because usually at that point my mom is already napping and she's nice and cuddly when she naps, but she's not terribly exciting). 

Then I go show off in the back yard by jumping around like a damned fool and barking at sticks.  My mom and dad eat it up.

And then I go inside and kiss my dad as much as I possibly can.

And then I'm usually pretty tired, so I go take another nap.  This time I might switch it up and lie on the floor.

When my mom and dad make dinner, I try to help them out by begging for cheese or other tasty bites.

After we eat I go back to the couch.

And then we all relax and watch TV and movies and stuff (I usually lobby to get us to watch any one of the movies from the Air Bud franchise).  I like to joke around with my dad while we watch stuff.  It kind of annoys him.  Sometimes we argue about politics.  My mom and dad are democrats, and I'm a member of the Tea Party.  (Go Glen Bark!)

Sometimes we all go outside to the carport and talk, and I will get my dad to hold me.  I know I'm a big dog, but big dogs love to be held, too.

And after that, I wait outside the bathroom door while my mom takes a shower, and then it's right back to the big bed for night night. 

So that's my daily routine.  What's yours?

A Host of Fears (a post from Mitch)

It's not easy being a dog. (Supposedly, it's not easy being cheesy, either. But I think it would be pretty fun to be cheesy. Fun, and delicious.)

Here's why it's hard to be a dog: you get really scared of stuff.

See, when I was a young pup, I wasn't afraid of anything. And then, gradually, I began to have bad experiences.

First it was the handle on that stupid white reclining chair. I got my puppy foot stuck in it and broke my foot. That sucked soooooo bad. You know how much you have to go to the vet when you have a broken foot?

Then it was bicycles. I don't have a good reason to hate bicycles, I just do.

And I hate bags of golf clubs, too.

Then came my fear of thunderstorms. I wasn't afraid of thunderstorms until a couple of years ago when my great aunt Doo Doo Brown told me about how scary they are. She said that she'd been hit with the booms, and that it stung.

And now any loud noise makes me think of a thunderstorm and I get really scared--so scared I put my tail between my legs!

In the same vein of the loud noises comes being around my dad while he's watching football. He claps and yells and I hate it. I usually run to my mom for protection.

And now I'm afraid of my yard. More specifically, I'm afraid of the squirrels in my yard. They throw acorns at me and taunt me, and the other day there were two of them going completely crazy. It was like a bicycle and a thunderstorm and Daddy watching football all rolled into one. Oh, and they attacked me. It's a good thing that I have my rabies shot.

So now I am afraid to go into the back yard. This really sucks because that's where I go to get away from my dad while he's watching football. It's a real catch 22.

My first solution to overcome fears: BARKING.

I barked at the power lines at the park to tell those park squirrels to tell my yard squirrels who's boss.

But it didn't really take away the fear. When my mom opens the door for me to go out, I just stand there.

And ask her if I can please just get a litter box. But then I remember that only cats have litter boxes, and I hate cats, so that's a no go.

I pretend that I can't go outside because I have an itch on my face.

And I try to scare my mom by telling her that there's a murderer outside, and that we should both just go lie on the couch. But she's too shrewd, and she doesn't fall for it.

And she keeps hasslin' me. And I don't want to. (I'm actually her elder now, if we count in dog years. I think she should do what I say.)

I try to charm her with my smiles.

And I do some handsome poses. But to no avail.

But then I smell something that smells like it might be delicious. What is that? Grilled squirrel kebabs? The Real Simple recipe? With an Asian flavor profile?

You had me at grilled squirrel kebabs. So I make my way down, slowly.

And as soon as I get off the steps I know I've made a horrible mistake.

I'm a dog, and I can sense fear, and I can sense evil. (That's why I always bark at the mailman; he's both afraid and evil.)

But, with Mom's encouragement (even though I suspect that she is playing some horrible joke on me), I inch my way to the yard of fear. I want these kebabs.

It's a scary, scary world, filled with bicycles and golf club bags, thunderstorms and dads who watch football.

But I'm Mitch, and Mama didn't raise no fool. Mama did, however, raise a dog with a discerning palate, and that dog is wanting squirrel kebabs.

I'm doing it. I'm going to the yard, squirrels or no squirrels. And my legs are shaking, my knees are weak, and I can't seem to stand on my own four feet. I'm all shook up, but I think I'll make it. Wish me luck!