My life is tough. I mean, I’m twelve weeks old, loved, fed, watered, peeped and pooped, but already I’m having crises. I lie awake nights, staring at the door of my kennel, listening to all the heavy breathing in the house, just thinking: “Who am I?”
This is a really serious concern for me! I mean, think about it, I’m not even really sure what my name is!
One minute someone’s calling me Rusty, then it’s Rusters, then Rustbuster, Rusteroony, then Dusty (I believe this was my predecessor), then Snicklefritz, then Fricklesnitz, then Sassafras, Ratzafratz, Poops, Pooper, Peeper, Cute, Cutie-pie, Sweetie-pie, Toots. I mean, I am completely at a loss.
It’s not enough that I have to learn the importance of poops and peeps placement. It’s not enough that I have to learn how to walk on a lead so that I’m not pulling like crazy, or that I must learn how to handle stairs, both up and down, without – quite frankly – breaking a leg or a hip or perhaps even both. It’s not enough that I have to learn what I’m allowed to chew, and what I’m not allowed to chew, what to eat, where to sleep – now I have to figure out my name, too. That’s a lot of pressure to put on a little fella like me.
So which is it, guys? Give me something to work with here!