Dear Journal,
It has been one week since The Great Snipening.
They continue to insist this is “for my own good,” but I remain unconvinced. Nothing good has happened since. I’m still wearing the cone. Still wearing the neck pillow. Still being kept indoors like some kind of overgrown, emotionally fragile houseplant.
I used to have a job. A purpose. I used to bark at hawks. I used to chase shadows in the pasture and pretend they were threats. I had goats to guard. Now? My days consist of being told “No, don’t lick that” and knocking my cone into every wall, doorframe, and human shin in this house. I'm a once-fearless guardian now reduced to a hallway speed bump.
The humiliation is endless.
I tried to mount an escape attempt on Day 5. I pressed my cone against the door, pawed at the handle, and made my saddest howl. They thought it was “adorable” and filmed it for Instagram. Instagram, Journal. I was betrayed twice in one week.
I have not pooped in peace since this thing was attached to my head. I have lost peripheral vision. I have learned what a “baby wipe” is. No dog should know these things.
My humans have taken to calling me “Donut Dog.” Sometimes “Sir Licks-A-Lot” when they catch me trying to sneak around the cone. The shame is unbearable. I was once a noble guardian. Now I’m a cautionary tale for puppies.
The goats have probably forgotten me. Maybe they’ve hired a goose in my place. Or worse—a mini donkey. I shudder to think of it.
I shall continue my silent protest by dramatically sighing and flopping to the ground every time someone walks by. And if I get one more “boop” on the nose while I’m trying to sleep? I will file a formal complaint.
Please send snacks. And maybe bolt cutters.
Desperately yours,
Charlie, The Conehead Avenger
(formerly of the pasture, now of the couch)
No comments:
Post a Comment