(During summer reruns on TV, Bill decided to share some previous blogs by the family’s Yorkshire Terrier, Sam.)

Dear Kibble and Treat Providers,

While you were gone . . .

Someone accidentally had an accident accidentally in the house. However, don’t worry—it occurred in the guest bedroom closet where no one will notice for days.

Someone tore all of the stuffing out of my friend, Frog, and strewed it across the den floor like polyester snowflakes in July.

Someone jumped up on the neatly made bed and scratched the bedspread into a comfy nest for napping.

Someone scattered dog food across the kitchen floor in order to find just the right kibble to nibble.

Someone sloshed water out of the dog bowl while getting a drink.

Someone left nose prints on the  glass while barking at the evil mail man.

Someone perched on top of the sofa pillows as a watchtower to guard the house.

Someone got into the bathroom wastebasket—AGAIN—and dumped Kleenex, Q-tips, and cotton balls on the floor.

Someone grabbed the end of the toilet paper roll and ran through the house with it streaming behind him.

Someone couldn’t wait for you to get home and greeted you at the door with twists, turns, yips, and kisses.

Someone promises none of these things will EVER happen again . . . well, at least until you are gone the next time.

Love,

Sam

(During summer reruns on TV, Bill decided to share some previous blogs by the family’s Yorkshire Terrier, Sam. Views expressed by the canine in no way reflect the blogger’s opinions.)

I don’t get the whole “views expressed by the canine” disclaimer. I see the world from eight inches off the floor—of course our views on things differ. DUH!

We’ve been together for almost 11 years now. I adopted the family while still a pup. I surprised them on a Christmas morning when Santa brought me down the chimney. Forget electronics, clothes, or jewelry—the best presents love you back.

I don’t demand much in return—kibble, treats, walks, and tummy rubs keep me happy. Humans could learn something about contentment from their canine companions.

My humans treat me to a spa treatment every six weeks. The cosmetician gives me a cut and wash before spritzing me with cologne. Then she ties a bandana around my neck.

I hate bandanas.

I also despise having my nails done. Despite my vocal protests, the woman insists on clipping my paws. One time she tried to buff my nails with a Dremel grinder. A lift of the lip and a flash of my teeth convinced her otherwise.

In a just cosmos, the Top Dog would send pet groomers to their own special corner of hell. Let’s just see how they like having their glands squeezed for all of eternity!

Until I properly trained them, my family only fed me twice daily. Puh-lease! I’ve watched the man of the house—he eats three meals a day and snacks in between. Why should I be treated different?

Don’t get me wrong—I still tip the scales at a svelte 12 pounds. However, I like the security of food in my bowl 24/7/365.

Even if it’s full, I like to scratch the floor beside my bowl. This informs any human within hearing range that it’s time for His Highness to dine. I insist the nearest non-canine top off the bowl with fresh food—yet another endearing practice that my humans adore.

Over the years, I’ve accumulated a basket of squeaky toys. I occasionally treat my humans to a tug-of-war game. I’ve been best friends with Moo-Cow for years. I drag her into the middle of the floor and tear out her stuffing before snuggling together. Love’s complicated sometimes.

Humans LOVE to do tricks. After my human pulls a treat out of the box, I’ve trained him to hold it over my head and say “Sit!” Then I hold out my paw, and he’s learned to shake hands. Dropping on my stomach cues him to say “Down!” Finally, I allow him to give me a treat.

Like I said last time, it’s a dog’s life, and I’m not complaining. The Great Master in the Sky has blessed my family richly. Between you and me, I believe the Hound of Heaven has a soft spot for canines.

Think about it—“dog” is “God” spelled backwards. Coincidence? I don’t think so!

(During summer reruns on TV, Bill decided to share some previous blogs by the family’s Yorkshire Terrier, Sam. Views expressed by the canine in no way reflect his master’s opinions.)

Before we begin, let me apologize for the whole “master” complex of my “owner.” Puh-lease! We all know who is really in control. However, I’ve learned from watching his wife that it doesn’t hurt to let the man THINK that he’s in charge.

In his defense, he’s a lovable sort—slow but trainable. After weeks of effort, he finally learned to give me a dog biscuit whenever I sat, shook, or rolled over.

It took longer on the house training. I committed a number of indiscretions on the carpet before he finally figured out the routine. Now he takes me outside on a regular schedule. One glance at the front door, and he comes running.

We use a leash on our walks. I’ve found this is the best way to keep my human from wandering away. A short tug of the lead gets his attention; but the leash still wraps around his legs if he doesn’t turn quickly enough.

Why are people in such a hurry? A walk involves so much more than locomotion and elimination. God’s creation calls us to play. The scent of each bush, tree, and hydrant reveals cosmic mysteries. Sigh—so many smells to smell and so little time to smell them.

Speaking of smells, so what if I enjoy an occasional roll in something stinky—who doesn’t? The best opportunities always seem to occur right after a bath. For some unfathomable reason, this practice upsets my humans. I imagine they would be less stressed if they followed my example.

Don’t get me started on squirrels. They act so high and mighty with their bushy tails and twitching noses. Lucky for them I keep my people on a leash while I’m outside. Otherwise, I would be on them like white on a Maltese.

I love to go for rides. I sit in my man’s lap and drive. It’s tough to watch the road with my nose out the window, but I manage.

I am The Master of All I Survey. Sometimes strange people or animals dare to walk on the street in front of my house. Per dog decorum, I exercise my right and duty to announce my presence loudly. My family pretends to fuss about the barking, but I know that they treasure this endearing quality.

I may only weigh 12 pounds, but it’s not the size of the dog in the fight—it’s the size of the fight in the dog!

I’m waiting at the door when my people arrive at the end of the day. They always act so excited to see me. I indulge them with some dancing and prancing of my own. Humans love that sort of stuff.

At bedtime, I decide which human to grace with my presence in bed. They started me off in a crate followed by a dog bed. Puh-lease—get a grip and buy a clue. They can sleep in a crate while I snuggle under the covers.

It’s a dog’s life, and I’m not complaining. The Great Master in the Sky has blessed my family richly. Between you and me, I believe the Hound of Heaven has a soft spot for canines.

Think about it—“dog” is “God” spelled backwards. Coincidence? I don’t think so!