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March 31, 2006 New dog in office. Hate him. Portugese something or other. Will buff him when no one's looking. April 28, 2006 She's never going to leave that computer. They're growing a shared blood supply. Um, it's nice outside. Walkies? Walkies? Hello? How about ME! BUFFY! Obey BUFFY! Crap. May 31, 2006 Manicure ambush after walkies. I hate her. Where is the %$@**! humane society? Would they allow this? Some roast chicken might have softened the blow. So much for human guilt. June 6, 2006 What's with the commotion in here? And stop messing with my 'do. Pat pat pat pat pat pat. So tedious. And the kissy-face "WHO's a good Buffy?!!" Knock that off too. I'm always a "good Buffy" in case anyone would care to notice. A little Shropshire might go a longer way here if the objective was to get me to actually like you. August 7, 2006 More intensity on the A/C would be nice. They're trying to kill me. August 14, 2006 The visitors with the skin babies are insane. And they drop bland food. The bigger one shrieks and I get blamed, often from the other side of the house. Etching marks in the wall to keep track of when I last had semi-decent car rides. No "good Boofy Boofy Boofy" today - I'm buffing dogs as soon as I get the chance. Fun quotient dangerously low. I'd buff the skin babies but I'm sure they'd drown me. I think I'm getting hot spots. This is crap. August 23, 1006 Buffy day. Long walkies in a.m. Then used as "stimulus dog" for this dog that becomes unglued at the sight of dogs. Essentially, for me, a meatball orgy. Didn't get to buff him much but no matter. Then visit from Jennifer, who used to work here. Love Jennifer. Was going to buff Henry for hogging the office briefly but felt all compassionate. Napped and dreamt I went to a dog party where every dog had to wear a costume except me. Woke up and realized nobody had touched my hair all day. Perfection. September 13, 2006 Man, I love being a stimulus dog. Pecorino romano festival, roast chicken and these meatball things. I just stand there or do 10 foot walkies indoors in the shade. No stretch. This dog "Charley" with bad hair tries to buff me and HE GETS IN TROUBLE. "Too bad for Charley..." and he's escorted off to the pen and I get HIS meatballs while HE watches. Over and over. Then he wises up, so I buff him a bit to see what will happen to me and he goes all ineffectual little snarkey and GETS IN TROUBLE AGAIN. Finally he plays and he's fun. The schadenfreude was better though. Rumors that Irene and Bill are coming to visit. Heart be still. If it's true, it *doubles* the staff overnight. Better than double actually. Irene and Bill leave them in the dust vis a vis door opening. Very snappy indeed. And, neither has ever, even once, tried to make out with me. September 15, 2006 Scones in car. Excellent. Took her rather a long time to pick the raisins out - so much for human dexterity. Not sure I'm on board with the "oh my god, one raisin will KILL Buffy" thing. She put that pouch on. I'm also smelling grilled chicken so thinking there'll be some Charley action in my p.m. Little shit better not spit on me. September 27, 2006 Well, Irene and Bill are coming in December. Hot damn. Let's hope they DIAL THE HUMANE SOCIETY on arrival. Not only did I have to break stride several times this week on the way in after work because of faulty timing of door opening, I get in yesterday and the water dish is empty. No water. Uh...scones don't exactly hydrate themselves. I could have died and they didn't seem to care. She's all "oh! oh! the elephants, the poor elephants! ban the circus!" as I lie shriveling up on the kitchen floor. Clearly there'll be no need to book me that 'happy hour' spot in the Doris Day inn thing. I'll be dead and buried by Thanksgiving. Clip nails all you want then. Tomorrow I'll play Oh I Don't Really Want The Kong Ambush with that new dog Preston or Tristan or Crispin or Thurston or whatever his name is. And if she brings another cringing little terrier or something into my office for grooming again, I don't care, I'm going for it. September 29, 2006 Sometimes when I want to go out, I'm not looking for a major peregrination - I just want to see what's going on. And then I need to come back in. It's simple. They so don't get this. Take this morning. I check out the patio and prompt them to let me in. I wait. I wait. I'm gathering dust. Finally, heaving great sighs, she opens the oh-it's-so-heavy door. How hard is this? Then I need to do grunties. I prompt them. They look at me like I've grown an extra head. What has happened to the service sector in this country? Big attitudes. Completely uncheerful. Everyone resents everything. He acts like pushing a little button to open my window in the car is running 2:15 in the Boston Marathon or donating a kidney. Oh, and she stretches me right off the ground AGAIN during the inevitable morning make-out session ("Boofy Boofy Boofy Boofy"). If I wanted sex in the morning, I'd mount her leg. October 1, 2006 Mouse in the bushes on walkies this morning. Sublime. Was re-living the moment when I caught a bouquet from a fire hydrant. She's all "you're a cliche" and I'm like "we've got some novel piss here - back off." We get home and she fits me for a radio collar, some sort of GPS tracking device. At first I thought 'well this is interesting, they're letting me go' but then I realized it's about her paranoia. If I leave the estate for so much as five seconds she's shrieking 'WHERE'S BUFFY????" in a cold sweat. The time I went out on the roof her eyes bugged out so far they hit the pavement. This is ridiculuous. It's not like I don't have 80 000 tags, tattoos, photo ID and a microchip. Now I'm on "Wild Kingdom." Next it'll be a cockpit voice recorder. October 22, 2006 Bath at last. A little thin on walkies - feel my muscles wasting - but at least I'm clean. 41 days until Irene and Bill. They must be that little bit older by now but hopefully they can still walk. And, if I remember correctly, they're both omnivores, which means some serious dead animals in the house. Mr. and Mrs. Ecowarrior's tofu burgers on whole wheat buns leave me kind of cold. I'm thinking Irene and Bill will take one look at my pleading little face, fire up the Prius and stock the fridge with hormone-free steaks so we can live a little. Looking forward to buffing Preston again tomorrow. He takes it and takes it and takes it. Keep forgetting to play ambush. Since Ruby's been sick it's no fun stealing off her and Henry is too easy. Will try an accidental bully stick drop and see if I'm lucky. October 24, 2006 Worsening neglect. They nurture the houseplants with more gusto. I'm getting an attorney.
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November 5, 2006 Abandonned for the better part of yesterday after a ferocious manicure assault followed by day-old scones. Route to the roof blocked and phones still dog unfriendly so unable to SOS. Rationing water in case they cut that off too. Developing some itchiness, no doubt secondary to stress-induced immune system collapse. Keep having distemper dreams. November 14, 2006 He's gone. Not just for the day, but poof, gone. It's been days and days. I was losing the will to live until I nearly nailed that groundhog outside the hardware store. Plus the look on her face when I went out the car window was worth it all on its own. Apparently now I'm getting a six-point restraining harness, likely in a matching color to my tracking device. I'm so depressed. Hope Sue comes for me today. She takes me to the best places. I thought I was being sold as meat the first time she walked off with me but it's been three times and nothing but snacks, car rides and walkies so far. The fact that I had to threaten litigation to get her to bring Sue into the fold speaks volumes about the extent of the neglect. Now I'm in a single parent household, which, if memory serves, puts me at higher risk for drugs, dropping out, pregnancy and crime. Now the pregnancy thing is a long shot given the full hysterectomy, one of the few smart things they did. I hump and hump and hump without any fear of twelve shrieking puppies hanging over my head like an axe. On the other hand, with my luck I'll get pregnant anyway and they'll put a close-circuit camera on me to make sure I don't kill them all. Almost didn't get out of bed this morning until she promised walkies. Bait and switch: nails. So typical. I'll end up with a stress-mediated auto-immune disorder at this rate. On the post-nails walkies saw that little old man again, the one who seems to try to make himself inconspicuous to dogs by stepping off the path, standing dead still, looking up to the heavens, making weird noises and wielding a branch. Uh, someone needs to tell him that acting like a freak is a bit high profile given his objective. He manages to create the one picture I've never seen, which is something given the turbo socialization campaign she had me on when I was smaller (nearly killed me), so I investigate. Self-fulfilling prophecy for The Dog Whisperer who ups the freak-o factor several million by chanting in some foreign language and twirling his stick like a Cowboys cheerleader. So I bark. The guy is now probably convinced he needs to wear a Viking helmet and fishnets and wield a light sabre if he's to be invisible to dogs. Next time I'm biting him. She'll kill me or de-fang me or put me on Prozac or something but I don't care. I wonder if he'll ever come back. Eighteen days until Irene and Bill. Don't know if I'll make it. November 17, 2006 So there's an ex-pen in the kitchen and a vari-kennel in the car. This can only mean one thing: me opening up a can of whoop-ass on some unsuspecting foster. Let the buffing begin. November 25, 2006 This new freak-o dog, Buttercream or Buttercup or Pudding Cup or Cummerbund or whatever, is so clueless. She's afraid of them, which is a joke. When they're not wielding nailclippers they are ridiculously harmless. What a freak. She goes around with a virtual "Buff Me Now" sign on her so I buff her a few times the other day in my office and get put in Ruby's crate. "GASP! Mummy *hates* Buffy!" Um, do I look like a six month-old golden retriever here? Like "wow, it's so great having this retarded freak with chronically blown pupils in my house eating my crunchies all day. Thanks!" At least the same food they're plying her with ends up my way. Hoping to buff her big when Irene and Bill get here - the commotion will distract them, I'll squeak a bit and look all sad and then they'll blame her for starting it. A little crate time might give her some added perspective on the Highlander thing. Oh, and speaking of blame, White Fang breaks wind like a flotilla of Dobies last night and he blames me. Me. November 28, 2006 Ew. So Butternut makes copious liquid grunties all over her ex-pen in the night and lies miserable in a corner of the bed. Much cleaning and laundering. Then a second installment. I happen to know she hates addenda. Maybe this means this dog is toast. December 5, 2006 Irene Irene Irene. Door open, let Buffy out. Door open, let Buffy in. Door open, let Buffy out, then hmm maybe not, back in right away. Flinch toward the door and it's open again. In out in out in out in out. Then double walkies. That's double. Two. Deux. Duo. Zwei. Dos. They're fired. Irene stays. Buffy loves Irene. There are no others. December 7, 2006 Double walkies like clockwork every day. Endless door opening services. And word on the grapevine is Cup-o-Noodles freak dog isn't coming to the beach. Home with Marilyn. Not wild about sharing Marilyn but fair trade-off getting Irene and Bill to myself, plus Buffy-friendly Carmel. No luck buffing Kumquat Butt lately, though I got her three times in an hour the other day at the office, a personal best. I so much as look at her and she's all over me with "YOU BE GOOD BUFFY." Translation: I buff her I'm in the bathroom for five minutes. Irene lobbies that this is cruel but is shot down. December 15, 2006 Well, Irene and Bill are gone and within two days walkies have dried up completely and utterly. Then yesterday the crunchies ran out. Apparently not an issue as she stayed in pyjamas all day conjoined to the computer. Am conserving energy to make sure Butterball dies before I do so I can consume her and hang on long enough for the humane society to notice. Such a retarded dog. Broke survival mode to buff her very slightly the other day and ended up in Ruby's crate again, trapped like a zoo animal in a third world country while parades of oggling school children traipsed by tapping the glass in the office. I'd give anything for a bowl of crunchies. Feel light-headed but can still walk. December 27, 2006 We're all hanging out at the office and every time she leaves for thirty seconds, Butterscotch freaks right out, carrying on whining and scratching like the politician's daughter in Silence of the Lambs. Luckily, I'm imprisoned on the other side of the door with Ruby and Henry, who by contrast now appear emotionally stable. Then Jake gets going. It's like a depiction of eighteenth century French insane assylums in here. Sure answers the question "hey, do dogs get headaches?" And then when she comes back Buttermilk does the "oh oh oh, you're going to kill me, eeeeek!!!! run away, run away!" thing. What an idiot. I don't know what bleeding heart is going to want to install this drama queen permanently in their house. It could take eons to find a sufficiently codependent adopter. I wonder if she'd eat the Pointsetta if I nudged it off the counter. End of problem.
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