It's a rough life, but someone's got to live it...

Six months.

Some people would pin a medal on me just for making it this far.  I don't know about that.  Living with Myrtle is not all bad.  According to Neighbor Girl, she kisses me too much.  I want to tell Neighbor Girl to mind her own business, but thus far I haven't figured out human speech.

I should have started this a long time ago, but perhaps my eighth-month-birthday is as good a time as any.  Actually, there is a raging debate as to whether I was born on the 1st or the 10th.  I suppose Myrtle will settle on a date by the time my first whole year rolls around.  I think if play my cards right, though, I could end up with two birthdays and two celebrations, which would mean two extra-tasty meals and two bones and two new babies!

A dog can't have enough babies.

Yep.  That's right.  I'm Myrtle's dog.  Or she's my doggy mom. I'm not sure what's the best way to look at it.  The jury is out on which one of us does more taking care of the other.  I guess I'll let you decide.

This is me, by the way.  A handsome little devil, don't you think?  This was back before she picked up the scissors, thinking she could do as good a job as a groomer.  The jury's out on that one, too.

What do you need to know about me?  Well, I'm a stand up kind of guy.  I won't leave you in the lurch.  Matter of fact, I won't leave you at all.  If you have a problem with my getting tangled in your feet, take some walking lessons.  I'm just trying to keep you company.

I like soft, plushy babies with squeakers, tennis balls, and baths.  Well, I like the snuggling that takes place after the bath.  For the baths themselves, Myrtle uses this smelly shampoo she just LOVES.  It's lavender scented!  I am a MALE and she has me smelling like flowers all the bloody time!  But, then again, because I do, she buries her face in my hair and gives me kisses all the day long.  A fellow simply can't get enough kisses.  That Neighbor Girl is all wrong.

Myrtle will tell you my one failing is that I have yet to learn to do my major business out of doors.  She overlooks the fact that when a fellow's got to go, he's GOT to go.  Plus, she also has this brown grass growing upstairs, right inside where there is no rain, no scary darkness, no terrifying wet blades of grass, and no Fearsome Beast.  So, I don't know why she objects to me using it.  She makes such a fuss over my going outside that I want to do so again.  But, like I said.  Sometimes, you just got to go.

I met Myrtle on February 14th.  A crazy day for me.  Before I knew it, I was being ripped away from my five siblings and tossed into the back seat of this big metal machine.  I was bounced around something fierce for two hours before I was finally carried up some steps and placed into her arms.

If she had her way, I think Myrtle would never put me down.  I'm that kind of a fellow; girls just want to hang out with me.  But she does manage it.

I thought her a rather strange creature at first sight.  She's strange, I grant you that, but I am not so sure in the way I first thought.  Her hair is impossibly long, which she has taken to wearing in two braids.  I thought she started doing this so I could have extra chew toys, but I was mistaken.  She made that clear.  She is sick a lot, which my other caregivers were not.  I find that strange, especially when she's lying on the floor and no amount of swiping at her cheeks or bouncing up and down on her will wake her up.  She watches movies and reads books and listens to Sugarland.  She's a night owl and a morning bear.  She told me, in no uncertain terms, when we met that her food was off limits.  We both know that's not true, but I try to pretend for her sake.  Sometimes she gets very discouraged about the raising of me.  I don't understand this, but I know it to be true.  She weeps a lot and trembles.  She doesn't walk me as much as I would like.  And she will not share her bacon.

But, one month ago, she saved my life.  That's the bottom line for me.  She put my life ahead of hers.

I'm not talking about being rescued from the pound and that shot of death awaiting unwanted dogs there.  I'm talking about giving every ounce of her strength to hold onto me while a raging maniac of a pit bull tried to kill me or eat me or both...hopefully in that order.  She was bitten and bruised and damaged in more ways than I can understand.  These two men kept urging her to let me go and save herself.  She didn't heed their (probably sage) advice.  Instead, she kept stumbling back to her feet each time the pit bull pulled her to the ground in his attempt to pull me away from her.  With his teeth buried in my body, he really had the upper hand.  But she held on.  She, who drops her brush and has stopped doing the fancy braids because her hands hurt too much, held on for what seemed like five years, though was maybe five minutes total.

Before that day, I would have told you there was no way she could win a battle with a pit bull.  She is tired all the time, falls a lot, and naps at least twice a day.  She drops things, can't lift others, and even struggled to haul me around if I am not draped about her shoulders.  On paper, the pit bull should have won.  But he didn't.

How can I object to having to take care of her when she did that for me?

The dreams that make her wake up screaming have returned.  She is too chicken to take me for a walk.  And she jumps and starts at barking dogs.

Of course, so do I. 

Myrtle refuses to evict the Fearsome Beast that resides in our back yard.  She will wash dishes every day, but won't wash me each time I ask. She doesn't allow me to play by myself, especially upstairs on the brown grass.  And she's a mess.

But, the way I see it, she's my mess.  I'm going to take care of her because she takes care of me.  I was doing that before the pit bull hurt us both.  I played with her and snuggled with her and even learned to fetch the toys she flings across the room or yard for no reason at all.  I was a good mate, I think. 

At least I thought I was.  And then I saw how much she loves me, how beneath all the tears and fears and weakness and illness, there is this lioness ready to defend her cub.  It's a jungle out there, man!  I'm sticking close to Myrtle.  And I'm going to do a much better job of taking care of her.  Sometimes that means waiting on my urgent needs (that might take a while more to fully execute), learning a new word lickety split (I learned down stairs in just one day without begging for a single bone bribe), dragging her out of bed so she'll stop being the hermit she's becoming, or comforting her when she weary and her wounds are weighing her down. Heck, it might just mean taking on Neighbor Girl.  But let's not be rash.  Slow and steady wins the race.

So what if it seems that there is more of my taking care of her than her taking care of me.  Who says a dog's got to live just one way?

This is my life with Myrtle.  Amos Adams signing off.