I often wish you could speak English. If only to tell you that the FedEx man on our doorstep does not intend to murder me. Also, the biscuit from that nice lady at the bank window likely isn’t poisonous so please don’t dramatically drop it on the floor and then give her a dirty look. Rude.
Recently though, I’ve wanted warn you about what my rapidly growing belly actually means. Because darling, change is coming.
Honestly, you’ve already put up with a lot from me. I adopted you at a time when I had no business owning a scrappy puppy. I was a 24-year-old waitress living in Nashville, Tennessee in the midst of my quarter life crisis. My schedule was erratic and my finances were unstable. And yet, you stuck by me. And even made house training a breeze. (There was that accident in my yellow croc, but maybe you’re just a fashionista and didn’t approve.) We then moved in with my parents in Massachusetts before moving on to Oregon for law school. You handled every road trip like a champ and you’ve seen more American landmarks than the average baby boomer. You were even a trooper at the Grand Canyon when dozens of Japanese tourists asked for pictures with you. Apparently you look like a famous dog over there. Andy and I probably should have stopped them when you started getting bored, but it was like, so fun. You’ve overlooked a lot and never fail to greet me with a wagging tail and inappropriate jumping that I gave up trying to fix 6 years ago.
All that being said, you haven’t always been a delight yourself. Your most reprehensible misdeed, in my humble opinion, is how clearly you prefer Andy to me. You don’t even try and hide it! I found you, I adopted you, I trained you, I fed you, and I loved for three years. And then some schmuck who enjoys 6 mile walks strolls into our lives and now you wait outside the bathroom while he pees.
Oh, and there was that Thanksgiving when we bought you a steak (even though I’m a vegetarian) because we felt bad we were leaving you alone for the day. And to show your appreciation you took the defrosting steak off the kitchen counter, carried it (proudly, I imagine) to our bedroom, and consumed the bloody carcass in our bed. I was not thankful for that.
Even so, you’ve been the center of my universe for seven years. I feel guilty leaving Target without a treat for you. My camera roll is just endless photos of you – many of which are identical. And daily text messages are exchanged about how much you ate for breakfast and the quality of your morning bowel movement. You’ve had a good run, Pup, but there’s about to be a new pooper in town. And believe it or not, we’ll find her bowel movements even more text message worthy than yours.
So even though you don’t understand, I’d like to apologize in advance for how much your world is about to be rocked. I’m sure it’ll be rough going from Queen Bee to a mere drone. But you’ll need to be patient with us as we figure out how to keep a tiny human alive while also remembering to feed you. And we promise to not forget that you were here first.