It is Monday. I am watching Her do upwards dog on Her yoga mat. Her saggy leggings and look of panic should be enough to cheer me up. I should be running around her, getting in the way and licking her face when she is trying to be Zen (if that is indeed possible in those leggings.)
Instead, I sulk. I sulk because it is Monday. But mostly I sulk because today is a day of only one breakfast.
For the last three days I have had two breakfasts.
There is little more a puppy could want. Three would be unsophisticated but two, TWO breakfasts are all I’ve ever desired in life… (Ok that is a lie, the A/W Barbour puppy coat and a Paul Smith collar would be nice too but you get the point – two breakfasts is a very good thing.)
Now normally She leaves a note for Him: ‘puppy fed.’ Simple. A note both useful and reflective of Her mental capacity.
However, for the past two days She has been giddy and glassy eyed and has forgotten to put out the ‘puppy fed’ note… And He has dutifully given me a second breakfast. I had presumed She was rabid and had been giving her a wide berth but apparently this was not the case. According to the growing number of cards on the book shelf (at least they cover up Her embarrassing collection of Science Fantasy and Philippa Gregory novels,) He and She have recently gotten engaged and She, in Her joy, has turned into a pop-eyed, squeaking skippy thing that can barely stand still let alone formulate sentences.
I found the discovery of their engagement rather underwhelming until a fat spaniel in puppy class pointed out that when they got married He, She and Me would finally all have the same surname.I would no longer be a pup with edgy artsy cohabiting owners. I would be a bona fide, double barrelled, fish cakes for supper kind of dog with a country house in Devon and possibly a butler. … I presume all this comes with having married owners. Especially the butler. I am pinning all my hopes that this is true and shall refuse to believe otherwise (no matter what that mouthy Italian Water Dog says.)
It may even turn out to be better than having two breakfasts.
(…But only if I really do get a butler…. Who I shall call Colin…. Who opens doors for me and tips his hat in a jaunty and slightly flirtatious way. Yes that would be better, even, than two breakfasts.)