The Boston Terror

Woof, Pasha here. Sir Pasha Wampus III, to be exact. Yeah, the old lady thought this was a sign of intelligence giving me this moniker. Well, I’ve got news for her, if you have to explain it to everyone, not so much. Right about now, you might be wondering how it comes to be that, I a dog, an entity of the canine species, would be smart enough to assess human intelligence, and yet here you are, hoping to glean some new insight into the nature of dogs, from a dog. I can’t speak your language, nor can I type and still you persist. Let me be clear, I understand everything you say and most of what you don’t say—what you think. And, I have to tell you, so far, I’m not impressed.

My people, don’t appreciate anything. Look, let me tell you this. I’m a pretty impressive dog. I don’t come from a shelter, nor am I a rescue. The old lady came in to the shop with the girl “just to look”. She justifies it, by telling everyone that she has two rescues and that all dogs deserve a chance. I agree and appreciate it.  Did I tell you, I come with a built in perfume dispensary? Worth every penny! And I keep everything clean! You see this? This is my built in all-purpose dishrag, pre-moistened—perfect for those hard to reach places and for cleaning my people’s faces, their arms and their clothes. I’m diligent too, if they leave a glass or plate on the table, I don’t let a minute go by, before I get to cleaning. My “hoptoitness” is beyond reproach. I sometimes think they don’t always appreciate my attentiveness.

The old lady, she’s well meaning, but such a pushover. She’s trained almost to perfection. She calls me her forty-five hundred dollar doper doggie. Because, I got into her pills. They smelled so interesting. I chewed right through the plastic bottles she left on her desk. At first, it wasn’t so bad. But, then the lights went out. A bad scene. When I came to a day and a half later I was in the hospital. Something about 5-htp frying my brain. You’d think I’d learn—but man that smell—intoxicating! She’s nuts. She gives me everything. She shares every bite of food with me. She’d sell her house and her soul for me.

I came here last—the last and best doggie on the planet. They know. I rule the roost. I’m alpha doggie numero uno. Sometimes I have to let them know. The other two. Queeny and Harry. I love teasing them with my toys. I own all the toys. They chase me and get out of breath, and I’m just getting started. And when the boy comes home, and if he plays with me, I’m in heaven. I’m very good at catching the ball. I can jump really high. My paw pads are extra thick and help me bounce. It’s like springs. Boing, Boing.

But, my favorite time, is when it’s dark and I get to snuggle. We all, Queeny, Harry and me, we jump on the girl’s bed and arrange ourselves around her. Harry, goes under the blankets and sleeps. Queeny settles on the girl’s legs. And, I take my time and rearrange the blankets. I have my specifications. It takes a minute or two—it has to be just right. And then I flop down. Perfect.

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Here’s me, willing a poor, unwitting child to do my every bidding. Like putty in my paws

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