Who let the dog out?

Dear Land of Yajeev readers,

I found dad’s blogger.com password under his pillow while I was waiting for him to come home. When I was just a puppy, mom and dad would turn the television on for me when they would leave for the day. I would listen to the happy voices of QVC and Home Shopping Network salespeople all day long. Mom and dad would often come home to find dog-friendly luxury items mysteriously left at our front door and the associated charges on the next month’s credit card bill: diamond-studded collars, gourmet milkbones, sterling silver food bowls with my name inscribed, and the like.

Now in an apparent effort to save energy and prevent my doggy brain from rotting, they no longer let me watch television all day long. Instead I’m supposed to amuse myself with squeaky toys (which are really only fun when shared), rawhide, and multiplication tables (mom says I’m gifted). But no matter what I set myself to doing, I always end up in the same condition: curled up asleep on dad’s pillow. I’ll start in on my rawhide bone, chewing and gnawing, but my eyes get heavy, and I know it’s futile to try to keep on keeping on, and before I know it, I’ve drifted off to doggy dreamland.

Then, every afternoon, I’m awakened by the most wonderful sound in the world: a key in the front door. It means my mom is home. I’m not sure where they go all day and why I can’t go with them, but when mom comes home, I know once again that all is right with the world. The front door opens, and I hear steps moving closer and closer to the bedroom in which I have been a (willing) captive. I crouch at the door, like a tightly compressed spring. The door opens, and I pounce with the energy I’ve stored all day long. Then I transition into what mom and dad call my daily spree, where I show off my special skills like speed, agility, waggingness, and personality, running up and down the stairs, circling the kitchen table at least five times, and jumping to mom’s nose level to give her special kisses (once I kissed her so hard, she grabbed her mouth and started crying—she muttered something about a chipped tooth, which I think was just a euphemism for the indescribable joy I provided her with my canine kiss).

Finally, I sprint to the door and muster all the self-control I have and sit like a good boy (though I can’t keep my tail from quivering) so she’ll put my leash on me and take me for a walk. Walks are awesome. If you’ve never been on one, you should really get your mom or dad to take you. First, you get to go to the bathroom. Like twenty times. Then, you get to see all of your friends. My best neighborhood friends are Sadie, Phoebe, Huckleberry, and Nick (Nick’s really cool—he has Christmas lights on his doghouse). After Sadie, Phoebe, Huckleberry, and Nick come Beau, Sandy (she barks at me, but I know it’s just cuz she likes me), and Leena. This time of the year is the best for walks (even though mom and dad complain about how messy it is outside). Why? you ask. One word: poopsicles. Little crunchy nuggets of frozen brown goodness the other dogs leave for me to enjoy. I try to leave my own (you know, to pay it forward), but mom and dad insist of picking mine up in little blue bags.

Well, blogosphere, that’s all for now, but if dad isn’t too mad after he finds this letter, I might be back soon. I think I hear a key in the door.

Warmly,






Watson Steve