My Life As A Dog, Part I

Well, I'm not 100% in love with my weekend. First, Dad won't let us go to the beach because Andrew is allergic to something. Then, when I stare at him, he says "Satchie, you're allergic to swimming so don't give me any attitude!" Humans! So my love for the beach is relegated to a stupid pond. Just look at me and Andrew in this Dog-forsaken wading pool. "Ridiculous" I say.
Then, to add insult to insult, on Sunday we get to go for a nice hot car ride up to the kennels. Great. A not so subtle reminder of chilhood angst. Then I go to see Momma Lisa (my real Mom in the picture -- just look!) and all she does is bark at Dad. He tries to reason with her without success. "Winners Bitch" indeed! Probably why my real Pappy, Phantom (yes, look at the sort-of picture) went back to the U.K.

What happens next? We go up to Parker's Landing and the really big boy, Paris, beats me up. No backup at all from Andrew. (I worry he's getting wise.)

Okay, there is some good news in all of this. You see, people are always asking Dad, "How big will he get" and "how small are they when they're born" and other such nonsense. I mean, really, we don't ask these questions of their children. Can you just imagine me walking up to a stroller and saying, "Hey there, cute kid, what breed is he?" "Does he bite?" "How much does he eat a day?" "You must have a big car?" "Does he shed his skin alot?" "Can I pet him?" Er, sorry, I lost my head there for a minute.

Anyway, Momma had another baby and they sort of named him after James, or James Jr. In any event, they're calling him "JJ" and he's disgustingly cute. Aunt Heidi even carries him around in a little crib. (I get yanked around on a leash.) Dad got that look in his eyes like he wants him, so I've had to be on good behavior and cut out the guilt thing for a few days. "Sometimes it's hard to be a Newfie."

So a big drool-laden welcome to JJ. In a few weeks we'll get him his first bib. And, by the way, to answer one of the zillion most frequently asked questions, this is what a one-week old Newfie looks like. (Dad could use a photo class.) Just too dang cute for words, which is what I'm always saying 'bout myself. Gotta scoot, he heard me. Love, Satchie.