(Quoth SB: “The quality of this picture can only partially convey the despondency she displayed upon finding me dressing for work this morning.”)
Mommy has been gone almost a week now. I have been getting intimately acquainted with the interior of my kennel. Is this the life of most dogs, left alone in their house all day to fend for themselves, nothing but a few peanut-butter-filled kongs and a nylabone or two for company?
Sure, my grandmother lets me out to run around and play at noon, and when Daddy comes home in the evening, he makes sure we have a lovely catch and lots of snuggly quality time, but it’s not the same. Where is Mommy? Where is this stupid Ireland place?
I swear, if I find out she’s been going on walks with the castle cats or playing around with the gorgeous blue-eyed grey dog that lives in the garden or feeding carrots (my favorite treat next to peanut butter!) to the castle’s old rescue donkey, or chasing the castle peacocks — well, hell hath no fury like a puppy not played with, I’ll tell you what.