Tales From the Dog Bed

My name is Jessie. I live in Santa Monica with my sisters Maggie and Zena and the two furless creatures: our butler and housekeeper. The naked ones call themselves our parents, but let’s face it, their job is to clean the house, and, more importantly, cook and serve our food. So who’s kidding who?

I’ve lived here since I was a pup, and I have a few stories to tell. Sadly, my paws aren’t big enough to touch-type; it takes me a while to type up a story one letter at a time, so you’ll have to be patient.

First of all, you have to know that, in this house, I’m the gifted one. Not to blow my own horn, but someone has to! Everyone here underestimates me; they don’t realize that I’m so smart and talented. I’m an intellectual, an artist, musician, a thinker, a dreamer, a lover, and, of course, a writer.

I’m also humble.

Renaissance dog

In every way that counts, I am a renaissance dog. It helps that I can remember all my past lives. That can be a gift or a curse, depending.

To wit: Bet you didn’t know that Michelangelo had a dog, did you? Well, that was me. I was an Italian greyhound in that life; Mikey called me Bella. So who do you think sniffed out the David in that big white rock and told M where to chisel? Me! But who do you think took all the credit? My old friend, Michelangelo.

The Sistine Chapel ceiling? Also me. I did the sketches, and then it was just a paint-by-number deal for him. I’m no fan of heights, which made it even worse— all those hours up there on that scaffold with a piece of charcoal in my teeth — while strapped to his unbathed chest. Ew. Humans are gross.

At least I could find a snack in his beard from time to time, thank Dog.

But, to this day, humans all think Michelangelo was such a genius. Give me a break! All these lives later, and I still haven’t forgiven him. And all the others — Freud, Madame Curie, Van Gogh. Where would they be without me?

The two I live with now? Eh, they’re useful, but not gifted. Nobody’s ever going to read about them in the history books. I do what I can, but there’s only so much a dog can do.

We’ll have to sit down over a bowl of kibble someday and I’ll tell you all about it.

Anyway, my humans are ordinary by my standards, but they’re okay. I guess every lifetime doesn’t have to be supernova brilliant.

So, about my sisters. Maggie’s a Jackchi like me, and Zena is — well, nobody really knows — but she’s got enough terrier in her to get by. Obviously, we terriers are the best in every category — I double-dog dare you to say otherwise!

I had two other sisters, but they both never came back from the vet. And you wonder why our worst fear is a car ride to the vet? Just ask Red and Beggs. Oh — wait, you can’t.

Red and Beggs, my other sisters, were Beagles. I miss Red, who got sick last year and took the one-way trip. She was such a good girl. The humans kept saying that, and it’s true. She never judged me, never got mad at me, even when I got right up in her face, which Dog knows is my divine right as a terrier.

Sadly, Red had an addiction. Fortunately, it was not the kind that kills you or lands you in the street, or, worse, the dog shelter. Red was addicted to beds. It didn’t matter whose bed it was or even if it was five sizes too small for her, Red never met a bed she didn’t try.

It didn’t help that our humans don’t believe in tough love; they thought her bed fetish was cute and just kept buying her fancier and fancier beds. If she were still here, she’d be sleeping on gold-framed ermine by now.

I can’t fault them, really. Red had a heart the size of Texas, and she never minded sharing. She’d share love, food, and, yes, even beds.

Now Beggs, on the other hand — let’s just say, yikes. She was scary. I know the humans thought she was great, but the older she got, the more Zena and I feared for our lives. Dog help you if you got between her and her food.

The long road here

I moved to this house in 2010. I was born and spent my first few months in Pasadena. That was a pretty good gig — brothers and sisters to boss around and a big yard —until suddenly my humans lost me on a road trip. I spent six terrifying days trying to survive on the street with rats and — worse — squirrels, before, thank Dog, some kind people found me.

To this day, I hate squirrels — stupid bushy-tailed chirpy rodents who refused to share their food with me, even when I asked nicely. No, they’d sit there holding some precious morsel of something in their little hands and smirk at me. It’s fall, they’d say. I have to bury these for my family. You’re a dog — go find yourself a human!

My temporary people took a picture of me and put it somewhere other humans could see it. Inline? Byline? Oh, Zena tells me it’s “online.” She knows because that’s how our humans found her, too. Zena’s good with people words — she has a huge vocabulary and can even spell. W-a-l-k? She’s at the door with her leash. D-i-n-n-e-r? She’s standing in the kitchen at the front of the line.

The super-ordinary but kind people found me online and came to Pasadena to get me, which I hear can take an hour and a half in traffic from the Westside.

They drove me all the way to Santa Monica, stopping at a Petco on the way. They got me a new collar, harness, leash, and a cool green tag with a lightning bolt on it. And a new bed, which I had all to myself for three years until they brought Red home.

I’ve gotta run now; the housekeeper needs the computer. She’d better order me some new toys!