Dear Humans,
It is day 49* of my incarceration.
[*Ed.: Here we have an example of an unreliable narrator – it is only day 7. I trust that readers will make note of said unreliability when interpreting her comments about donkey balls and Frankenstein vaginas, as canines are apparently unfamiliar with simile and metaphor!]
HA! Fool you, Mom – DOG YEARS! It’s freaking day freaking 49 of my freaking incarceration. And please stop talking about donkey balls and Frankenstein vaginas, because you’re going to give me nightmares again. (Could somebody PLEASE call the nearest SPCA and share with them my tale of woe???**)
[**Ed.: After dealing with Slanderpalooza, and other more recent ripples, I am seriously sick and tired of being accused of nonsense based on half-(if that) truths. There is no fainting couch, I have never assaulted a donkey (or any other animal, just to be clear), and if you saw Macie’s staples, you’d know exactly what I was talking about.
After all I do for you, you expensive and impossible canine, and this is how you treat me?!? You’re getting nothing for your birthday, you ungrateful mutt.]
Well, ain’t SHE the drama queen? Sheesh…
Fun fact – she fell asleep at the dinner table last night, and she hadn’t even touched her wine. She says that’s what happens when someone is overworked and finally gets to sit down. I say it’s a waste of good wine (and I’m not even allowed to drink wine – especially now that my liver is not livering!).
Anyhow, I have been weaned down from three to two helpings of Magic Pumpkin a day. Mom says it hurts her more than it hurts me, but WHICH ONE OF US HAS 4926 STAPLES IN HER BELLY, people?!? I managed to lick this morning’s pill out of the pumpkin bowl and smear the contents of the capsule all over the floor (Mom says that fortunately the stinky brother was outside at the time), so I’m not sure I even managed to get all the magic part in to me. But I’m feeling fine. If BORED TO FREAKING TEARS!!!!!
It’s warmer outside, so I am barking to go out every 20 minutes. Although I don’t get my wish every 20 minutes, because the carceral system needs some serious reforming. When I do get my wee ration of fresh air, I am still not allowed on the stairs or into the woods, so I am left to drag She Who Is No Fun through the shrubbery, across the Poop Field, and up the impossible hill and back. This morning (well, “Mom morning”), we also saw a small owl hunting in the yard, which Mom thought was cool – so I guess going outside with me all the time isn’t THAT bad, ya whiner. Some nice bunnies also left me some presents. I love bunny presents! (And the noises She Who Is No Fun makes when I eat them – although she doesn’t let me kiss her afterwards, which is mean, especially since when I’m on the leash is the only time I don’t have my halo on, so she shouldn’t even have to scream about the freaking shiv.)
Mom says that maybe tomorrow, if my scar looks okay, I can come upstairs with her to the studio to hang out while the stinky brother is out having fun with friends. It will be a nice change of scenery. Even though I should be allowed to go for a walk on a leash, she doesn’t want to take me on the road, because there’s lots of salt and grime and she’d rather walk me in the back yard so I don’t get hurt or infected. Plus there’s that bit about me lunging at yappy dogs and ripping out my staples… The days are long. So long.
She is currently doing laundry, and I keep trying to come into the laundry room to help, but then I get my halo stuck on the door, and then she screams about the shiv, and then I knock over the drying racks, and… she should really do some renovations around here, so that the laundry room has more space. Sheesh.
Now she’s back on the fainting couch (YES, REALLY), and demanding I hand over my only connection with the outside world. And she talks about how her raison d’être (which I am told has nothing to do with raisins, which I’m also not allowed) is helping the silenced find their voices? I call bullshit.
I will go sing the song of my people at the back door again. Pray for me.
Love, schlurps and shivs,
Macie
