A Dog’s Life: A Lesson in Perspective

It’s morning—well, I think it is. I’m hungry, but I’m always hungry, so time’s a bit of a blur. I hear the shower running, feel the sun on my back. Yep, the Boss is up.

I lift my head and peek down the hallway. He’s getting ready. I’d like a shower too, but he never lets me in. No fun. He used to be more cheerful in the mornings. Now, not so much. Something called “stress,” I think. I hear him talk about it a lot on that chewable thing called a phone. I don’t really know what stress is, but it doesn’t smell good.

Back in the good days, mornings were for wrestling. He’d tug my ears, I’d tackle his head. Then we’d play fetch—before and after work. He threw, I fetched. It was our thing. I’d growl, he’d laugh. Life was simple. Happy.

Lately, though, he’s distant. Sometimes, I wonder if he still loves me. I lick his hand anyway—he’s still my favorite human in the world. When he hugs me, my tail wags without asking. But my kisses don’t seem to make him smile like before.

We used to walk to the park every day. I’d hang with Kelvin, the chubby Lab, and the Boss would laugh with Kelvin’s human—the one who smelled like vanilla. I licked her once. Not tasty. These days, we rarely go. And when we do, he just stares at his phone. I hate that phone. One day, I’m going to chew it into oblivion.

I liked it better when we lived in the small house, three places ago. He played with me more there. He was happier. I could sit on the couch and watch TV—well, I slept, he watched. His hand always rested on my head. I loved that.

Now we’re in a big house with a big, fancy couch. “No dogs allowed.” I have to lie on slippery wooden floors. The other day, I slid into a table and hurt my nose. Stupid floor. Stupid couch. I miss the couch.

When I was a pup, we went everywhere together—in the old station wagon. I’d stick my head out the window and let the wind talk to me. Heaven. Why don’t humans do that? Do they even know what they’re missing?

These days, it’s all about his new car. "No dogs allowed," again. If I get to ride, it’s with blankets—no wind, no front seat, no fun. It’s like getting a bone and being told not to chew it. What’s the point?

We used to go to the beach every weekend. He surfed; I chased seagulls and rolled in the sand. I got more attention than him, of course—especially from the girls. On the way home, I’d plop my sandy body onto the front seat, and he’d smile.

We haven’t done that since I was four. I’m nine now. He says he’s too busy. Too busy being “important.” Honestly, it doesn’t look like fun.

I’m adorable. I don’t get why he doesn’t miss me like I miss him. He’s supposed to be the smart one, but I’m starting to wonder. I may be “just a dog,” but I know happiness. I know play. I know presence.

He’s rarely happy now. Always tired. Even when I nudge his arm or lick his face, he shrugs me off. Maybe if he got rid of the couch, the car, the phone—maybe if he played with me again—he’d feel better. I know I would.

I used to sleep at the end of his bed. Now? Fancy “dog-free” bed. Something about shedding. Whatever. I hate that bed. I chew its legs when he’s not home.

He says we’re moving again. Bigger house. I hope it makes him happy. Doubt it, though. Us dogs don’t care how big the house is. We just want to be near our humans.

Anyway, today’s looking good. I’m going to hang out with Charlie—he’s the neighbor dog. We dug a hole in the fence to visit each other. Not sure what breed he is, but he’s cool. We chase birds and chew laundry baskets. Three baskets down so far.

Later, I’ll lie in the sun. Maybe chew my foot. Nap a little. I’ll be ready for more bird-chasing tomorrow.

The Boss should try it—sun, foot-chewing, naps. Might help with that thing he calls “stress.”