The New Addition
Well, I have a brofur. There is no delicate way to put it. He’s an 8 yr. old cocker spaniel named Max. Max this. Max that. Come Max. Wait Max. MAX, as in I’m maxed out! When mom said he was eight, I thought he was elderly. I thought he’d sleep all day. I thought my toys were safe. Ha! He’s a thirty pound firecracker! He is a toy destructo-dog!
Mom says he is adorable and will calm down over time. She reminded me that within the first couple of months when I was first adopted I chewed the corner of a table, the wooden bed frame, a library book, moved shoes all over the house, and proceeded to kill 4 mice, 1 squirrel and 1 woodchuck. Frankly, I thought rearranging the house and yard to my canine tastes was what I was suppose to do. After all, why have a dog if you don’t like the canine designer look?
She then brought up the incident of dragging her into a swamp while I was chasing after ducks. (It appears she forgets nothing but internet passwords). In my defense, I’m a canine hunter. I just wasn’t use to having human baggage tied to me. How did I know she’d be waist deep in freezing cold swamp water because she wouldn’t let go of the leash? Was it my fault the leash became wrapped around swamp reeds? Of course not! The ducks kept swimming away, I was only following!
She thinks that just because I didn’t whine and carry on like Max, that I didn’t miss her when she went to work. I was terrified! I’d never lived in a house before. I didn’t know the protocol. I tried to fill my empty time. My people had old furniture – mom says it was antique – so see, same thing – old. They needed new, modern stuff. I was doing them a remodeling favor. And I didn’t destroy ALL my toys (just a few…every couple of days or so).