I know you’ve missed me..


I know it’s been a long time, but I have discovered a new fantastic reason to love winter – and I have been reveling in it. In all my years (I’m almost 47 after all) I’ve never known the sheer greatness that Christmas could be [thanks Dad..]

But this year?

This year Mom blew my world apart.

Now let’s get a few things straight: I love mom. She’s mostly always willing to give me love and she even gives us treats in the mornings after we go potty. She tells me how handsome I am ALL the time, she sneaks me food more often than not, she cuddles with me on my new dog bed in the living room, and she gives the best belly rubs. But she has also become quite the hard ass in the last few months…

Now, she doesn’t let me on the couch at all times, she yells at me when I try to communicate my love for females [whether it be through barking to Maggie across the street or mounting Caddy], she puts me in my kennel any time she leaves the house, and she most certainly does not let me sleep in bed with her. AND SHE TAKE SO MANY PICTURES OF ME. I swear I’m going blind from that bright flash.  So sometimes? Sometimes she’s not my favorite.

But she TOTALLY REDEEMED HERSELF this Christmas.
I have never experienced a Christmas quite like this year. I got SO. MUCH. LOVE.

I got TOYS! I got a new duck I have ripped to shreds in record time – and it came with not one, but TWO squeakers I got to chew to death. I got tennis balls – as in plural. And I finally – FINALLY – got my own NylaBone so I don’t have to share with Caddy.

Plus, I got to get on the couch on THREE separate days! And I’ll tell you what – couch naps are serious. As in, I am instantly in a comatose state as soon as my body hits the clouds of luxury that are the couch. And I am not a snuggler, but I find snuggling so much more enjoyable on the couch.

But the best part? The absolute cherry on top of all the greatness that has been my holiday???
I got both PIZZA & BACON flavored treats. And they keep coming in unlimited quantities to my belly. I LOVE THEM.


Mom, I love you. Christmas, I love you more.

My heart and my anal glands are filled to the brim, both on the brink of explosion.
It is smelly, gruesome, and wonderful all at once.

I can’t wait until next Christmas. How far away is it?


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Separation Anxiety.

KENNEL2Dear Diary.

I love my kennel. It is sacred and I will do anything to protect it. It is my safe haven. My own personal Burton Bubble where I can think and ponder all the things going through my mind at any given time. I enjoy my kennel time so much, in fact, that I find myself retreating to it even when I don’t have to be in it.

Go in my kennel while you’re out and about? Done.

Go in my kennel when you’re home and not in the kitchen or eating any kind of food? Sure.

Go in my kennel while you’re downstairs in the basement? Of course.

I have a tempurpedic bed that is just heaven to my frail and most perfect physique. It molds to the giblets so they don’t get squished, it gives me some extra comfort when I feel a midday nap is necessary, and it does a good job of keeping my paws warm while I enjoy the environment that is my kennel.

Caddy, however, does NOT enjoy any of these things. And she drives me abso-frickin-lutely insane.

All day, she spends her time ripping to shreds any possible thing she can find to decimate. I don’t know how many times I have tried to counsel her – to help and calm her nerves – it never works. I try to have civilized conversations with her and she ignores my every word.

She whines. She cries. She destroys.

She has eaten countless dog beds and defiled her kennel in ways I find both appalling and ridiculous.

Get your shit together, Caddy. There is no reason your kennel should always look like this when I sit next to you all day, every day. What more could a dog ask for? You have a safe haven with the most perfect of company – why do you hate your life so much? Why does your kennel always look like a bird’s nest? Are you secretly a bird?


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Shark vs Dog

vacuumDear Diary.

Now Listen. I’m a tough guy. I do not let people walk all over me – in fact, I’m notorious for being a real grump who puts up with no shit. I pride myself on being an asshole. There. I said it.

Mom calls me a “Cranky Old Man” but I just think that it is my right as head dog to be respected. If I want to sniff some snatch, then damnit I’m going to sniff some snatch. If I want to growl at Chad, then I’m GOING to growl at Chad. I don’t need a reason. I’m head dog. That’s my reason. This is my house and people fear ME.

The Shark, on the other hand, is a different story. There is nothing more horrifying than those bright LED eyes coming at me while he sucks up all of my individually placed hairs that I spread out, marking this territory as my own. Every week I have to re-spread my crop because THAT asshole sucks them all up. No shame in his game – he brings the term asshole to a whole ‘nother level.

And as if that isn’t’ enough, sometimes he charges after me while I fail to defend myself, leaving me no where to run. Just for shits and giggles. Or he’ll use one of his robot arms to taunt me while threatening to suck up my beef curtains – or worse – my goods. Dad laughs and then has the nerve to yell at ME when I get a wild hair to get a jab in here or there. Why the Shark is superior to me I will never know.

I HATE the Shark. More than I hate Chad. At least I can attack Chad if prompted.
That Shark? He wins every time.

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A peek..

Caddys Diary

Dear Diary.

I have successfully achieved couch status tonight, even after being told to get down because my humans don’t appreciate my breath.

I’m back on the couch, therefore I have won.

Now I want a cookie. And to go poop.

Also, Day 1825 and I’m STILL not the favorite..

I hate you Burton. And if you try to hump me one more time, I will bite your head off.


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Dear Diary.

I know exactly how to sucker these fools.

Around dinner time, I give them the pathetic “I want to hold hands” paw and follow through with a good old fashioned “I love you” look.

Mom will “ooh” and “aah” right into my little scheme.

Works every time.

Dinner. Served.

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Call Me a Dreamer.


Dear Diary.

I like to imagine what it would be like to chase after the squirrels I see in the yard.

Or to run and attack the mail man.

Or imagine what it would feel like to run down the cars that drive by.

Or dream of how marvelous it would be to hump the annoying bark right out of the neighbor dog Maggie across the street. [She’s the worst.]

But I know I am too big to do any of the above activities without getting winded or overly exhausted..

So instead I watch and dream from the doorstep.

It’s exhausting enough trying to hump Caddy in the air conditioned house…

Call me a dreamer.

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demotedDear Diary.

I’ve been demoted.

I’ve been demoted by a lizard.

I’ve been demoted by a silent but violent, rainbow colored, bug eating, never fetch playing, sticky tongued scaly thing.

WHAT is the world coming to?

I’m keeping my eyes on that guy… I don’t trust him.

Any animal who can look at 10 things at the same time is bad news.

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Foreign & Cold.

SickDear Diary.

My humans think I’m sick.

I’m lethargic and pathetic and unable to stand up without trouble.

While wallowing in my pain, something foreign and cold penetrated my backside and

I was ashamed and disrespected. Worst 2 minutes of my ever.

As it turns out, I have no fever.


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Death Stare.

DeathstareDear Diary.

I gotta poop. I gotta poop.
I gotta poop. I gotta poop.
I wanna cookie.
I gotta poop. I gotta poop.
I gotta poop. I gotta poop.

Damnit Dad quit avoiding my stare and give me some attention!
I want to go outside so I can get a cookie when I come back inside!

Oooooor we can go ahead and jump right to dinner.

Either or.

Which ever is fine with me. Or both. Both would be ideal.

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Frosty’s Snowballs.


Dear Diary.
I HATE the winter.
The only thing worse than having to go pee so bad your bladder hurts, is having to leap and bound through 15 inches of snow in order to go — and the whole time I’m trying to GET to my peeing destination, my testicles are turning into Frosty’s Snowballs as they shrivel up into my body.
It gives a whole new meaning to “blue balls.”
Screw you Mother Nature.
I’m moving to Jamaica.
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