The Miracles of Prozac

I would like to take this opportunity to sing the praises of my friend, Prozac. No, I am not one of those dogs who's afraid of admitting he has a problem. I mean, we all need a little help sometimes, right?

For me, that help has come in the form of a magic pill called Prozac. Yes, ever since I met Prozac, I've become a changed dog. No more shaking. No more pooping in the bathtub. No more smashing my head through the window when my dog and my person leave me alone in the house.

I'll admit, change wasn't easy. At first I tried taking some weird dog tranquilizer that the vet prescribed. That stuff sure made me sleepy, but it didn't do much for my mental problems. In fact, some people said it made my shaking and my destructive impulses even worse.

But now that I've found a true friend in Prozac, everything's a-okay. For any dog out there with "issues," I strongly recommend it. And as always, I am here if you need to talk.

xo,

Tofupup

Why do I shake?

Hey, does anyone else out there have a problem shaking? I don't mean like when you shake a toy in your mouth in wild attempts to batter it to death. I mean shaking like how you tremble when you're cold or really scared.

Well, it's not too cold here in California, so that can't be the problem. But still, I shake and shake. Sometimes I just curl up on the couch by myself and shake.

It could be because I am shaking with eager anticipation of my next rampage of destruction. Or it could be because I fear the inevitable consequences of my next evil rampage-- time in the crate, being told "no" --- you know, all that pansy-ass nonsense my human likes to call "punishment."

Certainly, I have no fear of that absurd "punishment" thing that my human likes to parlay upon me. So what am I so afraid of? Any chihuahuas, toy poodles or teacup yorshire terriers out there? I hear you guys spend a lot of time shaking too. Maybe you can lend me a paw in solving this shaking problem.

Something Funny

Today I did something funny. I made my crate collapse while I was inside of it. Then I escaped and went to work ripping the tile up off the kitchen floor. I had to work fast, though-- it took me so long to escape my crate that I only had about an hour left of working time before the others returned.

When my human and Chloe came back from the dog park I just sat back in the corner and giggled to myself. I bet the landlord is going to just love me when he sees that I already gave him a head start on the kitchen re-tiling.

Stockholm Syndrome

Today I reached a new milestone in my emotional development. I have, in a word, developed the "Stockholm Syndrome"-- that is, I empathize with my oppressor.

The oppressor in question is the cage that keeps me from smashing through the windows and ripping the door of its hinges when my human and my dog leave me alone in the house. I used to hate the cage. I peed in it constantly in my determined pledge to destroy that evil instrument of torture.

But today I had a breakthrough. Not only did I not pee in my cage/bed while Chloe and my human went to the dog park without me, but I actually spent some quality time hanging out inside the cage, with the door wide open, out of my own volition. It was quite pleasant, actually.

I imagine it's something similar to what autistic children feel when they are put in that weird "squeeze chute" thing that I saw on t.v. They get all quiet and comforted when they feel they are all boxed in. That is how I feel in my cage crate-- like a little autistic dog in a squeeze chute.

Either that or it's the Stockholm Syndrome kicking in.

I am a Pee Machine

I have a confession: I am a bed wetter. I can't stop peeing in my bed. My human put me in a crate again today when she left with my dog Chloe, mumbling something about how now I won't be able to break any windows. She was right about the windows, but I got my revenge anyway, soaking my bed and myself in my own pee.

I know that in humans, bed wetting is one of the three components of the "homicidal triad"-- the classic characteristics exhibited by serial killers. The other two parts of the triad are fire-starting and animal cruelty. Well, I haven't figured out how to start fires yet, although once when my human left, I turned the knobs on the stove and filled the kitchen with gas.

But I have the animal cruelty part down pat. Just point me at anything that walks on four legs, and my jaws starting chomping.

So there you have it: I'm a bed-wetting animal abuser. All I need now is some fire-starting know how, and I'm set. The next time I write to you, chances are it'll be from a prison for the criminally insane.

My mental problems

Well, my human left on a business trip last week, and I'll tell you what -- I had to really wrack my brains to come up with some decent punishment. I mean, she got a nice lady to come over and take me and Chloe for walks and feed us and stuff, but apparently she forgot to tell her not to take Chloe out and just leave me alone in the house.

When I saw the dogsitter and Chloe drive off together for a fun day at the beach *without me*, that was the last straw.

So, to punish them, I rammed my head through the front window. Then I chewed on the glass edges. It made a lot of blood and stuff, which was really colorful when I smeared it on the couch and the carpet.

Unfortunately, some moron had put bars over the window, so my ultimate escape from the house was thwarted. That's okay though; the look on my human's face when she came home to a blood-splattered house and dog was priceless.

Busy night

Today was one of my busiest days. My foolish human left the house and she took Chloe, my fellow canine prisoner in the house, with her. She told me I wasn't allowed to come because I "ruin everything." Whatever. Needless to say, I was pissed. I got my revenge by redecorating the house while they were gone.

When my human and Chloe got home, I acted all ashamed by cowering in the corner and sheepishly wagging just the very end of my tail. It worked pretty good; she wasn't even mad at me when she saw the pee in the tub and the poop on the bathroom rug. She even petted me and told me not to be scared. (Sucker!)

But hooo boy things sure changed when she saw the giant hole I dug in the middle of the new couch. I even pulled apart all the foam stuffing! Boy, that was hard work, especially since I only had an hour to do it in. I mean, I've chewed apart expensive shoes, picture frames, cell phones. . . you name it, I've shredded it. A couch, though, was a whole new challenge. But it was worth it.

My stupid human was so upset at me that she wouldn't let me on the bed and she stopped petting me. Then she spoke to me in a really low voice and used the word "bad" a lot.

I just cowered and rolled over on my back and acted really contrite. It's okay, though. What matters is that she learned her lesson and she won't dare leave me alone in the house again all by myself. I totally rule this house.