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My dog, livin' the life.

DISCLAIMER:  I love my life.  I just love my dog’s life better.

After all, he’s got it pretty good.  He’s like the Donald Trump of all dogs, minus the crappy hairstyle.  I watch our dog lounge around all day long, on beds, couches (brown couches and white dogs don’t exactly go together) and I’ve thought on more than one occasion:

I could soooooo do that. 

I might skip the relieving yourself in public part.  Here’s why I want to be my dog:

1)  The dog is fed twice a day and doesn’t have to clear his plate.  Dogs don’t do dishes.  There are no chores involved.  Meals are a simple process; eat and be done with it.  I could get used to that.

2)  Free treats at the bank.  I’m the one making all the effort, depositing our money to keep our accounts in good standing, and he’s the one who gets an afternoon snack?  All he did to earn it was let his ears flap in the wind during the ride over.  Where’s my treat?  What do you mean suckers are for the kids?

3)  He’s complimented for…simply…WALKING.  I go on a walk, no praise from the neighbors.  I take the DOG on a walk, and he’s the cutest thing they’ve ever seen.  It’s not like he’s doing something spectacular or unusual, folks.  He’s WALKING.  Left, right, left, right.  We’ve seen it before.  He even takes the occasional dump in your yard.  Yet the compliments are endless.

4)  He sleeps all day.  No one asks if he’s ‘been in the same spot since I left?’  No one reminds him of a TO-DO list that he never got around to completing.  People are okay with the dog basically keeping the rug warm day-in and day-out.  Pretty sure that wouldn’t fly if I chose to stay in bed and say screw everything else on the agenda.

5)  He’s ALWAYS the good guy.  He doesn’t impose house rules, so kids don’t talk back to the dog.  They don’t tell the dog that dinner doesn’t taste as good as so-and-so’s Mom or that he never lets them do anything fun.  He’s always the hero.  The hero who scores that bad-tasting dinner under the table. 

6)  The dog doesn’t care about abs.  Even after inhaling a doggie cone from a trip through the Dairy Queen drive-thru, he doesn’t worry about the outcome.  No jeans to fit into.  No painstaking crunches to put the muffin top to shame.  He eats and forgets about it.  I want that. 

7)  Endless belly rubs.  Not that I want my stomach massaged, but feet would be nice.  Shoulders, maybe.  My temples when I have a migraine.  Not surprisingly, no one jumps at the chance.  My husband’s fear of size 10 feet won’t get him within 2 inches of my toes.  I pay $25.00 for it at a spa, instead.  Dogs don’t pay. 

EVER.

And that’s 7.

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