It is a monumental day. It is the day that I was born. Tiny little Beans Aloysious Wienerdog sprang forth onto this Earth demanding treats, snuggles and fluffy bed (which is on a pillow which is on a sofa which is on a thick ply carpet... I'm the Princess and the Pea of wienerdogs, diary). I dare not say how old I am... But look and me and DAMN! I look good, so what the heck. I am 10. That's right, the big 1-0. The double digits. The top of the hill in the over the hill scale. Misery.
Stunning. Amiright??? But there is a little hitch in my giddeup there. Embarrassing.
So it's time for a mid life crisis.
OMG YOU GUYS!!!! Will I still be able to eat cloth wear with the same fervor as before?!?!?! Will I be able to eat a 2 lb wheel of smoked gouda cheese in 1.3 seconds?!?!?! Will I start to like French dogs?!?! Ugh. I can't think about these things. I must continue to live each day like I always have: like I'm the goddamn center of the universe. I have a small list of demands of which I'll present to Soft Touch and Mother Person tonight.
1. Access to the refrigerator. If that little person gets to run around with reckless abandon asking for copious amounts of fruit and cheese, I should be able to get in there and hit the salted meats. We're going to need some gadget to make this happen, as these T-Rex arms aren't going to cut it. Perhaps I bark twice, door opens. What could go wrong?!?!?! At least after I bark at the evil hallway monsters (who have yet to attack the home thanks to my vigorous vocalism, thank you very much), I'll get some meat to calm me down and refuel. This is just good sense.
2. A new bed. Don't they ever wonder why I eat my bed in approximately 3 weeks after getting it? It's because they're bullshit. (Not that I'd eat bullshit, I am a gentleman and have my limits!!!!! It's just a turn of phrase, diary.) I want a feathertop, spaceman foam extravaganza with a little elf who tucks a down blanket over my loppy-eared head at 9:30pm every night. But don't worry, I'll still wake up Soft Touch at 4am to get into their bed. I think he really likes that. Who doesn't like waking up at 4am?
Look how awful this is!!!!!!!
3. Retirement account. Sure, I've never earned a dime my whole life, and I've probably given Mother Person 49 heart attacks rushing me to the emergency night vet... and then 49 more heart attacks when she saw the bills. But, I need to start planning for my retirement home which rotates with the sun and is always 75 with a light breezy. And socks fall from the trees.
4. Sleep-away camp for the munchkin. I seriously can't believe they're keeping that kid... I liked him for a while with the food dropping and the peanut butter laden face... but he's getting older and tidier and that does NOT work for me.
5. Just kill the vacuum cleaner already. Injustice!
6. A unicorn. How are these not a thing yet?? It's 2014!! Scientists and veterinarians??? WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN DOING WITH ALL YOUR TIME?!?!?! Injustice. #MakeUnicornsAPriority
7. Jeez Louise. It's hard work making lists. I think I need a secretary. At least a Siri that will understand my accent. More misery.
8. I would like more treats when I do cute things. And not just like a "here, lick out the peanut butter jar," because that's just the people being lazy and mumbling about recycling laws... I want a tartare. Beef. Salmon. I don't care, but let's bring up the A-game shall we???
This is steak dinner cute right here. And I didn't bite him!!
I think this is a comprehensive list of my complaints and needs. I didn't put a Ferrari and a garish watch on this list as that's just too stereotypical.... and I will not be typical in ANY way. And who are we kidding, I haven't seen my wrists in years. This nose, those legs. It's a physical impossibility... But my elf who tucks me in at night could read it for me... Give him another job, and I'll look bangin'. Ok, #9. A garish watch with dials and knobs that no one understands but says to the world, Don't mess with him!!! He's got a giant watch!!
Happy birthday to me. I'll let you know if there's meat cake, diary. I won't hold me breath, though. Misery.
Yours,
Beans A. Wienerdog
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