Thus far, my one New Year’s Resolution—Take the Time to Savor Each Meal—has been an abysmal failure. My mind says, “Baxter, relish each kibble to its fullest extent,” but my body has other ideas, and before I know it? All gone. I know, I know—it’s the journey and not the destination—but why am I unable to liberate myself from my body’s base wants and desires? And if I can’t conquer myself, how can I conquer all the dogs around me?
Licked myself all afternoon. Don’t care.
It fills me with deep shame and loathing how I grovel for Brian and Sara’s food scraps. Last night, I was begging for quinoa—quinoa!—with mushrooms. To my core, even in my domesticated state, I am a hunter, and I am aware of this, but perhaps it speaks to a weakness in myself, a kind of selfishness, for I know that Brian and Sara don’t beg for my food and are quite respectful of the distance I demand while eating, but I am unable to return that favor. And as I ate the tiny bit of quinoa that fell to the floor, a part of me thought, “Baxter, you’re nothing but a pathetic mongrel!” I’ve been beating myself up a lot lately; it’s not good nor healthy. I blame the winter.
It was much-needed bliss to get out today and walk. The urine trails all tell the same story: Sheesh! When is this winter going to end? Glad to know I’m not the only one. Dewey—my upstairs neighbor—stopped by yesterday evening—and the play positions he sent my way could not mask the deep despair in his eyes. I positively despise winter. I walk for five minutes, and the salt gets on my back left paw and I’m hotfooting it home (it’s humiliating!), and Brian gets so impatient to get back to the warmth while I’m clearly—clearly, Brian!—sniffing this incredibly informative clump of yellow snow.
Brian. Don’t get me started. If he wasn’t my best friend, I’d hate him.
Lately, all I want to do is sit by the window and stare at the bleakness outside. It was so cold yesterday. When will this end? I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Things I once found pleasurable no longer please me. Brian and Sara try to pet me, but I don’t want to be touched. Walking around. Sniffing things. Rolling over. Shaking Brian’s hand. Meeting new people. Gallivanting around with other dogs. So growly lately. Nowadays, it all seems so…pointless. I need to keep telling myself that it’s just the winter doldrums, that it’s going to get better, but I’m just one dog in the universe, alone…alone…so alone.
“Belly rubs, Baxter!” Brian and Sara won’t stop saying “Belly rubs!” to me. It’s like they revel in my submission to them. It makes me sick. I’d like to belly rub them, see how they like it.
February: You cruel bitch goddess. Oh, and this chew toy mocks me with its squeaking. DIE ALREADY CHEW TOY. JESUS.
I’m finding it impossible to give two runny poodle shits about this year’s Super Bowl. Two teams I am supremely indifferent to, yet another obnoxious Bud Light advertising blitz, and—oh yes—the Red Hot Chili Peppers for the big halftime show. Brian and Sara won’t be here, and they won’t even have the common decency to leave the game on. Dewey wanted to bet me on the game, but I really don’t care about it enough, even if I had money riding on it.
Oh, and another thing: Fuck the Puppy Bowl. It’s setting us back as a species at least fifty years.