I have suffered two days of excruciating discomfort and embarrassment. It was almost more than I could bear. I’m sure my beloved master has reasons for doing these things to me; I have to hold on to that thought to stay sane. But why. Why?
First, he took me to the place that smells of fear and poodles where I was once again prodded and poked in all manner of ways unpleasant. After days or weeks of agony spent holed up in that dank dungeon (at least that’s how it felt to me), the lead torturer returned and said very hurtful things about me. She said I had … fatty deposits. She must not know my body just stores up my gloriousness for when I need it most!
Then she scratched my ears and told me I was a good girl, as if that makes up for what she did to me.
I thought the worst was behind me. I thought that the next time master took me someplace in the metal box with wheels on it, it would be someplace full of happy dog times. BUT NO. The VERY NEXT DAY, he took me to the place where they dunk me in a tank of smelly water, strip me of my very essence, shoot fiery cannons of hot air at me, and slice off the ends of my lustrous hair and toenails with dangerous sharp pointy things. I very nearly died at their hands. And I am left without any of my sense of self, smelling like some bland breakfast cereal with vague, floral undertones.
And then they scratched my ears and told me I was a good girl, as if that makes up for what they did to me.
The only thing that made me happy was watching dumbo Gizmo jump at a spot of snow on the window for hours like an idiot, trying to catch it or knock it down or who knows what. The larger smallish human had thrown a snowball at the window, only to have it partially stick. Being the genius he is, Gizmo assumed he could get at it. Oh, Gizmo. Your stupidity amuses me.
I will now attempt to nap and forget about what happened to me.