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Captain's Log

Sicko

Summer Colds Suck. Or so I am told. I honestly don't know the difference between a summer cold and any other kind. And to be honest, I think it's a silly term, because I am perfectly warm. But so worketh the humans.

Anyway, it appears that I have such a "cold." Or that is what Mom thinks. Word on the street is, I am going to the vet today to have it properly diagnosed, but my sniffling, sneezing, runny nose, can't rest symptoms have Mom pretty convinced she's right. Unless I have developed an allergy to Chance, which seems unlikely at this juncture.

The biggest issue with this cold thing is the sniffles cramp my style. As a chihuahua of leisure, I like to spend lots of time lying in the bed and on the couch on my back with my paws in the air, preferably receiving belly rubs from the parental units. But my sniffles have prevented this from being a long-term comfortable position, as I quickly start snurfling and sort of coughing. It's unpleasant and I would like it to be fixed. STAT.

On top of it all, it's POURING today and apparently it intends to do so for the duration, so my walk to the vet will be unpleasant. At least Chance will come along for the jaunt. Misery loves company.

Well, Mom starts her last year of law school (Ed. Note: Thank DOG) on Thursday and needs to do some reading on something called "Tax," so I am signing off for now for a nap beside the reading Momster. But I will update you all on my condition later today or tomorrow, once the diagnosis is final.

Sniffle,

C

It's better than being a cat

It has recently come to my attention, through a communique from the Offices of DexCorp, that plans are being made for me to hit the kitty ranks undercover shortly. Of course, I would be glad to do such a service to my country. I suspect I would do fine as a cat, as when I have encountered them before I have had little to no reaction to them. I therefore would be unlikely to do anything particularly objectionable in my taking over of the cat world, or at least I would be unlikely to blow my cover.

But I have to protest, dear readers, to the intimation that funds to turn me back into a chihuahua might not be necessary, due to the apparent improbability of one wanting to ever be a chihuahua. This is a clear insult to my spectacular breed. We are one noble set of dogs. Chance and I defend our apartment against intruders, visible and invisible. We assist in the kitchen. And we are clearly one step away from upsetting the space-time continuum with our cuteness. How we don't rule the world is really the only question I have.

And anyway, it's just so darned pleasant being a chihuahua. We don't have to go out in the weather like the kind our fine part of this Union is currently experiencing, which is to say the gazillion-degree, paw-burning kind. We spend our days like today at our leisure in Mom's lap. Or on our couch. Or in our bed. Really, it's just a constant perambulation from one sleeping spot to the next. Who wouldn't want to do that? And if I were a cat, while I admit some of my existence might be similar to that described above, I would not live HERE, because (a) Mom and Dad wanted dogs, not cats and (b) the artwork that hangs over my couch, behind my desk, etc. is too claw-able. Uncivilized felines would simply not work in these digs.

But I have said enough. I will suggest that we take up collection for my return to canine-hood, once I have served DexCorp in the necessary capacity of undercover kitty. Send funds to the Headquarters, so long as we can trust our Fearless Leader not to divert the funds to some other ignominious purpose. Like turning me into a fish or something.

I've said my piece. Woofs and perhaps a meow soon,

C

The indignity of it all

Dad saw Mom logging on to Dogster just now and said, "Are you going to write an entry? About how cute Chance is?"

Tell me, fellow readers, what's wrong with that set of questions?

Anyway, I was so insulted, I had to insist that Mom write an entry, and not about how cute Chance is (Ed. note: though he is). But seriously, if Mom is going to take time out of her busy schedule to log on to Dogster, the least she can do is write an entry about MY important doings.

Which actually don't consist of much, truth be told. Just had a few sips of Mom's beer, which is always nice. Washed the pizza crust down that I just got a hold of. Good stuff that pizza. The humans certainly have their moments of genius. Beer and pizza are the results of two of them.

Otherwise, it's a dog's life. Still hate my dogwalker, though word on the Street is that Mom has put in for a new one, thinking that maybe a more experienced person will be able to get our harnesses on, or at least will be able to touch us. What Mom has failed to realize, is that experience is no match for chihuahua hatred. And our particular brand extends to all humans who aren't Mom or Dad. So I say, Bring it ON. Ain't no one gonna break MY stride. Or cause me to exhibit it in public.

Anyway, that's about it. I have coffee tables to sniff, a brother to bother. But I will probably check in soon. Until then, dewclaws up.

C