Ed. Note: Using a Brain-Computer Interface App (BCIA) as envisioned by Elon Musk, the Craiglit.life technology department was able to transcribe the personal diary of a Labrador Retriever into the publishing empire’s mainframe computer. Because of the tumult this would cause in scientific circles, we will not release the name of the Retriever, respecting his/her privacy.
By XXXX the Lab
April 23, 2022
I had to sleep on the floor of the apartment again last night. Jeff’s friend Annie slept over and he wouldn’t let me up on the bed. This is happening more and more lately. I wonder if she’ll start sleeping over all the time. Why can’t she sleep on the floor? After all, I have been with Jeff longer than she has. I think I’ll chew up something of his today, maybe the baseball glove on the floor of his closet. Or maybe I’ll throw up on the rug.
The morning walk was OK. The building’s freight elevator was out of order, so we went down in one of the fancy elevators. We were on with a lady in a brown housecoat holding a shih tzu named Violet. The lady smelled sour, and her breath was all cigaretty. For the record, Violet is a little shit. She yips all the time, complaining about the cold sidewalk or the wet grass. She wears a red harness with rhinestones and a fake fur border with “Service Dog” written on it. Service? If her owner were attacked by rabid squirrels all Violet would do is stand and yip. Say her owner fell into a well. Would Violet run to find a passing stranger, tug on their sleeve to get help? I think not.
The park was nice. I found messages on tree trunks left by Gunner the beagle and Duke the schnauzer. A sniff told me Gunner’s owner had started buying off-brand dog food. Lucky for me, Jeff buys good stuff – Purina Pro Plan. Duke gets too much human food, and it gives him the runs. I left messages with their messages. I found Gunner and Duke by the azaleas and we greeted butts. Gunner was out of sorts. His owner has been away, and a dog walker has been taking Gunner out. One day, the walker didn’t show up on time and Gunner embarrassed himself by dumping on the hall carpet. I gave the walker, a fat man who wheezed, a frontal wet-nose wedgie on Gunner’s behalf.
Before we broke up to go back to our homes for a nap, Rocky showed up. Rocky is spotted brown and black; his muzzle has wiry whiskers, and his tail is like a rat’s. He doesn’t look like anything in particular. Gunner and Duke don’t approve of mixing the breeds and don’t want to be seen around Rocky, won’t butt-greet. I don’t think you should judge a dog by his looks. That’s the way he is born. If he is a mixed breed, he can’t help who his parents are. I think Rocky has fleas, though. I allow half-a-dog length distance when butt-greeting him. You can’t take chances. I don’t know how far a flea can jump.
I was hungry when we got back to the apartment. Jeff got out the Purina bag and was reaching for my food bowl when the talk box rang. Jeff spends a lot of time on the talk box. Sometimes when we are on a walk he starts going blah-blah-blah into the talk box, stops walking and forgets about me. I could almost bite him. I could tell by the tone of his voice that it was Annie. His voice gets quiet and syrupy. I sat by my bowl and stared at him, giving him the droopy sad face. He ignored me so I stepped in the water bowl and knocked it over. He frowned but kept on blah-blah-blah. This time I pushed the food bowl across the kitchen floor with my nose and banged it against his chair. Bingo. He was cranky but put down the talk box and fed me.
After my nap, I found my favorite toy, the turtle. I brought it to Jeff, but he was looking at the picture box, another irritating habit like using the talk box. He wouldn’t play toss so I chewed on the turtle. The turtle really isn’t mine. It belonged to Susie, who was here when I came. She was a golden retriever. She was Jeff’s pal for a long time. But she wasn’t much fun, preferred to sleep all the time, and Jeff had to help her up. One day she and Jeff went out for a walk, and he came back with only her leash. He cried. I wonder where I’ll go when I get tired and can’t get up?
At nearly dark-time, there was a knock on the door. Annie came in. Jeff went to the door and hugged her. I wonder if she will stay over tonight. I wonder if Jeff knows she is in heat.
Yours with a Wet Nose,
Ed. Note. We want to thank Tank Larsen and her mom and dad for allowing us to use her glam shots for the benefit of the www.craiglit.life publishing empire.