I had hoped to be invited to light the tree at Rockefeller Center this year, but the call never came.
Although I had been told that Aretha Franklin was going to condition her involvement upon me being included, apparently she forgot. Perhaps her handlers talked her out of it.
In the midst of my disappointment, I was mollified to at least receive a local tree-lighting invitation. "Lambie," I said to myself, "Remember that there's no place like home for the holidays."
The old me: With seizures, but relatively svelte. Seizures managed, but not controlled, by potassium bromide.
The new me: Without seizures, but "fluffier," as someone euphemistically described me yesterday at the bluff. Last night I was unable to jump up on the bed, due to my burgeoning fluff.
The difference: Along with the potassium bromide, I'm now taking phenobarbital, which is known to cause both lethargy and increased appetite.
Is it worth it? Logically, the exchange of my firm abs for a seizure-free life would seem to be worth it so long as the phenobarbital doesn't cause any mental softening. Just a matter of kissing my days as a hunky pup goodby, and going gentle into that good night of middle age.
And, in fact, I have not been lethargic. But this jumping-up problem is sobering. Am I going to have to live out my life needing others to lift me up onto my lounge chairs?
The diet vultures are already circling again.
Oliver is always in the center of the crowd. He radiates calm, and dogs seem drawn to him.
Whether he's mixing it up in a group, or sharing private confidences, he always looks comfortable.
Social IQ is such a hard thing to analyze. Where does it come from? Why does one dog have it and another not?
Me, for example. I'm great with people, but cool with other dogs.
I've been studying Ollie, trying to pick up some of his ineffable secrets.
Apparently it helps to have short legs.
To the right is a photo of me innocently cavorting with a new acquaintance by the name of Max, just before his owner pointed at me and asked my owner, "Is she pregnant?"
Below is a photo of me trying to simultaneously suck in my stomach and look macho.
When I went to the bluff yesterday morning I got involved in an upsetting altercation with a dog by the name of Rambo. It was so upsetting that once I had completed my morning evacuation I left the bluff posthaste to run home, ignoring my friend Pookie who had just pulled up and was getting out of his car.
Here's a photo of Pookie looking for me in vain and being washed over with disappointment as he realizes that we will not have a play date:
It's the verbal section I have trouble with.
As I was walking along the bluff I saw a woman in the distance.
She looked like someone who would like me and want to pet me. I'm usually pretty good at charming the ladies.
So I hastened toward her winsomely.
To my shock, the lady's step did not slow as I grew closer to her. In fact, she actually stepped to the side to avoid interacting with me.
That never happens to me.
Then she walked right past me.
I was forced to question some long-held assumptions.
How had I read this woman so wrong?
Was my charm on the wane? Was I losing the come-hither that used to draw them in?
What happens to dogs who can no longer get by on personality and good looks?
It's sobering moments like these that cause one to enter into major life re-evaluations.
Would I be a better dog if I tried to engage a little more?
Sometimes the world can seem so cruel.
When I arrived at the bluffs last night I saw Dolce and Max playing together. Black and white, ebony and ivory, perfect harmony.
I looked at their owners. Dressed in black and white, they matched Max and Dolce, and incidentally coordinated with one another as well.
Then I looked at my owner. Pink and olive. A terrible match for my fur. And obviously not coordinated with the other owners either.
It's hard enough being a dog who's not great at playing wrestling games or running after balls. Why do I also have to have the misfit parent?
Sure, it's all in my own head. But it's still hard to be the dog who doesn't fit in.
I turned away and walked over to the edge of the bluffs, away from the pink and olive, black and white.
I drank deeply of the ocean breeze and thought of my dinner waiting for me at home.
I thought of all the dogs who don't have dinner waiting, and of all the dogs whose owners are worse-dressed than mine.
I thought about how much my owner loves me, and I decided that maybe it was time for us to go home together and investigate the dinner situation.
