Who Rescued Who?

Dogs are my thing.

I spoil mine rotten.

I indulge her every whine, her every manipulative look, her every…

My every… projection of her every need.

Like I wish someone would’ve done for me.

I do for her.

I don’t have kids.

My dogs are my children.

Others claim that they wish they were my dog.

No shit sherlock.

I wish I were my dog.

Then again…

I like my humanness.

Most of the time.

The spoiling brings me joy.

I’m sure if I’d had a kid, they’d be little brats.

And, I would love them anyway.

My two cockers were brats.

But not this rescue.

Miss Daisy Mae,, is the sweetest spoiled little mutt I’ve ever known.

I adore her.

Her scruffy bearded face.

Her short fast legs.

Her drippy lips when she drinks.

She has her own dresser.

Filled with collars, leashes and clothing for every occasion.

She even has a designer Johnny Was Jacket and Carhart Vest that rival the cost of the human counterparts.

She has a jewelry rack too. And bows, and socks, and a swaddler.

She has beds, several in each room, and chairs…one Minnie Mouse and one Bean Bag for the outdoors.

The back seat of the truck is her palace. A bed, blankets, bowls, food, sweaters, and toys.

Yes, toys.

Whatever she picks out at the store, she shall have.

But why should I care.

She deserves it.

Rescue that she is.

But who rescued who?

That is the question.

Dogs are my thing.

— Trish