A dog’s sad, being ignored tale

My BFF Shelley is doing some silly writing, so I’m kind of sad, plus she gave me a bath.

For those reasons, I don’t feel like writing this week.

However, I want to cheer myself up with cute photos of myself (and in the process I may cheer you up). That’s because I’m the cutest dachshund in the world and the cutest dog ever.

My name is Zoey.

I love cats, dogs smaller than me and people. I love rawhides. I tolerate walks. I like to chew things (what I’m allowed to chew, not shoes or furniture because I’m a grownup dog and past that stage).

I’m, in essence, a good girl.

Poster Dog

Here is one of the photos Shelley has of me. It’s on her dresser in an 8″ by 10″ frame.

I’m a poster dog.

Or more like a photo and screensaver dog.

My BFF Shelley has me plastered everywhere, like she used to do with boy band posters.

Shelley has me in framed photographs in the living room and bedroom and inside the nightstand and closet—she likes opening up doors and drawers and seeing me posed in all of my cuteness. She has me in another frame at her office.

I’m also on the screensavers for her work and her two home computers—one set up with the printer and one to take out and about.

I’m on the front cover of one of her journals.

I’m on a mug.

And I’m on a book bag.

I even got to be on a calendar in 2011, but that year has passed.

What about this year? I need to be the center of 2016.

The fact I’m photo and screensaver dog shows that I’m loved and the other half of BFF.

 

 

Zoey the cute dog invites guest blogger

Zoey the Cute Dachshund normally writes her blogs in her voice, but this week she’s invited me to be a guest blogger.

The caveat is I have to talk about her.

I’ll start from the beginning, or the back story—I got Zoey, which means “life” in Greek, when she was nine weeks old and weighed 2.8 pounds. I brought her to the house, and she immediately took off to explore.

Zoey and I went through puppy kindergarten and intermediate training. We worked on tricks. And we became BFFs.

She was my first dog, so I started reading books about dog training and behavior, including a couple of books in the Dummies series. I liked the bright yellow cover for “Dachshunds for Dummies,” as well as the title, because who’s the bigger dummy when the dog is the boss?

I learned about Zoey’s breed and how to handle any issues, like barking, but really, she won the big bark battle. She barks at wheels and large dogs, and she glares at me when I say in my snappy, alpha voice, “No bark.”

Zoey likes dogs that are her size or smaller and cats, unless they’re bigger than her. She hides her tail, or if she’s safe in my arms or on the patio, she does her bark thing.

Zoey also likes, or I should say, loves people. We go on lots of walks, where I alternate carrying her and setting her on the ground, because I like to take long walks, and she has short legs.

On our walks, she stops at nearly everybody, practically running up to them to see if they’ll say “hello” and pet her. I keep her leash tugged tight, reading the body language of my sidewalk neighbors, and if they seem interested, Zoey gets to share herself.

She gets told she’s cute, pretty and beautiful.

She gets oohs and aahs.

And she triggers stories and memories of dogs lost to old age or disease, dogs at home and how many and their breeds, and dogs from their childhoods. We hear about why they love dogs. We hear about their bonds with the animals. And we learn a few training tips.

Zoey opens up conversations, gives people a moment to get lost in her loving nature and provides a dash of happiness, because nothing bad has happened to her. She’s all about loving and being loved.

And that, I believe, is what makes her a magnet.

A (cute) dog’s reflections on barking

I like to bark excessively.

I bark at dogs larger than me, at wheels and at loud, sudden bursts of sound.

I’m cute when I bark.!

Shelley, my BFF, tells me No Bark, but I don’t listen.

I bark and bark some more.

I probably need a dog whisperer to stop.

Or a stronger enforcement of my silence.

But I’m not going to be silent.

I want the world to know that I’m here, and that I’m cute.

I want the world to know that I have a voice.

So, therefore, I won’t be quiet, not when I can growl, grumble, whimper, bark, howl and make shrill sounds that sound like a multiple, layered snapping of my jaws. I won’t because I’m just trying to be in my being-ness through my noise.

I bark, therefore I am.

I am cute among statues.

Surviving the vet

I had to go to the veterinarian on Monday to get my rabies shot with a health checkup, not exactly my favorite way to spend the morning.

That’s because I don’t like getting poked and prodded, and I don’t like standing on the long metal table, my legs shaking, though being that high up with the vet and her assistance looking at me makes me the center of attention.

I may not like the idea of going to the vet’s, but I like the people. They tell me I’m cute, and they pet me. They give me treats, but I don’t eat them, because I’m nervous.

My appointment was supposed to be routine, but when the vet checked my ears, she discovered I have an ear infection.

The vet told my BFF Shelley my ear infection may be from allergies, either environmental or from the food I’m eating. I’m eating an organic chicken-based dog food, mid-price range, but now Shelley has to get me expensive dog food that doesn’t have a beef or chicken base to see if my ears get better.

She’ll be weaning me off my old dog food—which I only eat when I can’t get meat, cheese or vegetables in human food form or bone marrow treats—to introduce me to the new food. The vet gave Shelley a list of five suggested brands of dog food, but she has a sample of one of them she’ll try first before she buys a whole bag.

The vet also said Shelley should stop giving me milk bones, which I love, love, love! I’m sad about that because I take those to bed and eat them there as my goodnight snack.

I’m not sure going to the vet was a good thing, because now I have to get drops in my ears and get my ears cleaned twice a day every single day for one week. That’s kind of upsetting!

And my milk bones … bye, bye, bye!