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They call me Trinity. Allow me to introduce myself, as many of you probably have never walked by my pet human’s roofing truck and been frightened by my protective, yet intimidating (truth be known, I wouldn’t hurt a moth) bark. I was rescued just in time, from the Humane Society over a year ago, by my friend and pet human, Doug. (It means “smelly one” in doggish language). We work together, (me guarding the ladder) run and play together, and sleep together.
As far as my breed… well, I’m not sure, and neither is he. Let’s just say I’m big, I’m dark chocolate brown, and I’m gorgeous. Nuff barked. I languished at the prison for many months, with plenty of people stopping and admiring my gentle nature, but sadly, always walking away after shaking my paw, unaware of my tears.
Don’t get me wrong, the Cody shelter is a good one as far as shelters go, but shelter isn’t a good word to describe the loneliness, hopelessness, and sadness the dreary, monotonous, every day sameness that any prison brings. Now I’m free and happier than a pig in slop. (My apologies to any pigs I may have offended).
It’s because of what I’ve seen and know, that I choose to write this periodic piece. It’s to help all my poor brothers and sisters I left behind. It’s as painful as an imbedded tick to remember those days when I thought I’d never be free to romp, and I pray that they may soon experience that unbarkable joy. That’s where you folk come in. You’re the only hope they’ve got, and I shall be their conduit to you, so help me God, (which, if you haven’t noticed, is dog spelled backwards. Coincidence? Yeah; right!).
Now, I could have allowed my pet human to write this and express my feelings, but quite frankly, I find his writing to lack the wit and insight of my own. A bit dry, and I much prefer canned. He thinks he’s funny, but sometimes when I’m forced to listen to his senseless, juvenile drivel, I want to barf. He’s still my hero though, for what he’s done for me, so I indulge the shaggy mutt.
As I said, I’ve done time at the shelter, and it’s no walk through a field of parking meters. I worry about the imprisoned cats every bit as much as my breed. Yes, cats (What? Did I stutter?). My natural enemy, you say? Don’t you believe it! Aside from the lazy, prima donna attitude, they’re okay in my book. Blough has four of them, and although I find that a bit excessive – if not compulsive – they’re a nice bunch of kids. I’ll add though: they should not – I repeat, should NOT – be on the bed.
Many insecure men think it’s not manly to love cats. Hey, believe me: I’m as tough as they come, and I often let my pet human’s kitten, Sportscar, stick his entire little, black head in my mouth. Naturally, I find it somewhat distasteful – although cute – but I play the game, good-naturedly growling and what not. But it isn’t easy to keep one’s mouth cocked open at such an extreme angle for long. Try it sometime.
No, guys: cats are just like you and me; they just want to eat, sleep, watch some TV, and sniff a butt or two.
But getting back to my history, and a strange thing that happened: I used to run the East Sheridan neighborhood (or as he likes to ridiculously call it, “Doug Blough Hill) unsupervised, during the wee hours. This was at a time when my pet master was slightly ignorant of the dangers, and I wasn’t about to tell the moron. Then one day, he takes me to the same torture house where I was once stuck with needles, and he leaves me overnight. About all I can remember is a really hot poodle, and then a fitful nights sleep and a spooky nightmare about roadkill coming to life and chasing me.
Next day, Blough comes and retrieves me, immediately feeds me treats, and I soon puke all over the seat. No big deal. Strange thing is though, I’ve forgotten why I wanted to roam the neighborhood at night. Can’t remember for the life of me (which should be about 15 years… God willing and the creek don’t rise).
No, I’m serious; every now and then I’ll get some déjà vu or something, and bust loose from the hippie’s grasp. Sure enough, I find myself over on Baker Drive, just as I used to. But this border collie (let’s call her Daisy) gets to sniffing me and acting really weird and clingy. But for some reason, it’s a turnoff, and I get bored quickly. All of a sudden, a butt in the face is nothing more than a face full of butt.
I don’t know, maybe it menopaws, but I’m just not in the mood… ever! If Daisy can’t be satisfied with just being friends, my next writing might be a “Dear Duke” letter.
Well, the hour is late, and I can hear my pet master talking in his sleep again. Who the heck is Jennifer Lopez anyway? So until next time, be kind to all animals; believe me, we feel pain and rejection, just like you do. And please, visit the shelter. If you can’t set one of my wonderful friends free, at least talk to them, stroke them, give them treats. They appreciate it more than your little human minds can ever comprehend. (My apologies to any humans I may have offended).
With love and licks, Trinity Blough (“the chocolate Prince”)
P.S. Happy 4th to ya. And remember: you don’t need booze, OR firecrackers, to have a good time. All it takes is a Frisbee and something cold and rancid to eat.
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