Doggy resolutions 2014

As I'm pretty perfect, it has been difficult to come up with improvements, but in the spirit of the evening, here are the things I "resolve" to do in 2014:

• Bark less in the garden. It's tough to cut down on this because I do feel that if you sense danger, you should bark on it. And often when I'm standing in the back garden, looking up at those high surrounding walls and the houses beyond, I think: how can they be so relaxed about this? Literally anything could just leap at us and we would have no escape. Foxes, rats, pigeons: you name it, I'm sure they out there. And so I bark. But in acknowledgment of the fact that some may find this annoying, and also of the fact that I often get treats for stopping, I will cease unless it is absolutely necessary.
• Be nicer to the small one. I'll admit it: he's made a bit of an effort lately, giving me treats often, giving me bits of his food, cuddling me (although I still consider this an invasion of personal space) and generally being just a bit more predictable than previously. So unless absolutely necessary for reasons of self defence, I'll guard my snarl. 
• Not try to rip the postman's hand off. I do know it's futile - he knows it's futile too, that's why he laughs. But all the same, what if he did actually get his hand inside our door? I'm actually doing him a favour by being so vicious sounding that he has to retract it immediately. He's in less danger of getting his hand stuck. Nevertheless, again, I am probably causing unnecessary offence. He looks like a decent chap. And he hasn't actually tried to break in once yet. And I am sick of getting that paper stuck in the back of my mouth too.
• Stop getting so muddy. This one is realllllyyyyy hard as I do love mud. The problem is that every time I get muddy, they shower me. It's a nightmare. The thing I love most in the world causes the thing I hate most. It's almost karmic. I must break this perpetual cycle and be more moderate in my mud basking. I have noted that I can get away with a mere wipe of the paws if I don't overdo it. 
• Keep being my loveable self. If it ain't broke, as they say....

Guilt - and how to make the most of it. A guide for dogs.

Bone. I've gatta bone. You've not gatta bone. I've gatta bone.
Squeaky ball. I've gatta squeaky ball. You've not gatta squeaky ball. I've gatta squeaky ball.
New type of food. I've gatta... you get it now.
I've got a load of new shit. I don't know what I've done to deserve it because to be frank, I've been a seriously grumpy, aloof pups lately (yeah in fact don't call me that anymore, I'm 2 and a half).
I bark all the time at the window, especially if it is a) a skateboard b) a motorbike c) another dog d) a group of braying children. I am demanding a) of walks b) of food c) of attention. And I have made it absolutely clear that I am not interested in friendship or indeed any positive interaction with the small one (and we all know he kicks me DELIBERATELY, let's not pretend). And I smell and make deliberate efforts to smell more wherever possible by rolling in fox poo and running through stagnant muddy pools.
So I can't think why I've suddenly been bestowed with these items - rewards usually, when I've done nothing that warrants reward and in fact have been trying my damnedest to do the opposite.
I can only conclude that it must be guilt. And this is legacy guilt, I think, because they've only just started noticing me enough again to even care.
If this is the case, my new strategy should be to MAKE THEM FEEL AS GUILTY AS POSSIBLE AT ALL TIMES. I honestly don't think this should be too difficult. Glum dog face is easy. Rest head on paws, sigh excessively, lower ears and turn face to back of sofa. Job done. New treat on its way.
You humans. You are so easy to read.
Now I think about it, that's probably why they took me to that great new park the other day too. We are all getting a bit bored of the regular one. They feel guilty, they take me to a new park. Guilt - makes my world go round.

Is that a flea, or am I just pleased to see you?

There's an itch at the end of my tail. And another beneath my leg. It is a familiar itch.
Normally they do something about it instantly. They put some kind of wet stuff on my tail and neck and then the itch goes away.
This time, they said they don't have any and have to go and buy some.
Well, do so please, now, quick, because I can't go down that road to misery again.
I don't want the humiliation of a flea wash. I don't want the constant stress of having to bite the little buggers to death.
Look at me, I'm beautiful. I shouldn't have to put up with this shit.

The dread of not knowing if tonight will be the night when all of those little white eggs will suddenly hatch, hatch, pop in my fur and feast on my skin to celebrate their freedom. It is not if, it is when. This is a race against time. Just because it is Sunday night and all the shops are closed doesn't mean you can't find the wet stuff we need somewhere. You aren't trying hard enough.
Which one of you mongrels did it? Which one? Which one of you conglomerated the nest of fleas in your fur and deigned to come close enough to me to facilitate the infestation? This is why I stay away from my own kind. Seriously. They're crazy, dangerous and have fleas. I should not have fleas. I am Henry pups, the invincible. I'm a celebrity, get me out of here.

If you want to know, if they love you so it's in the food (and it isn't)

Yeah no joke I've been depressed for the last year and a bit. Couldn't write. Couldn't even think, so loud were his shrieks and wails, so frenzied his movements, it's been all I can manage to get up the stairs and hide under the bed.
The small person is now 18 months old. We are not, nor will we ever be, friends.
Yes, I might accept the treats he proffers. Yes, I might occasionally sniff his outstretched hand, or bum, and I will naturally defend him against other dogs because I can't help my instincts (I would if I could) but to me, he will always be the one that stole their affections. The usurper. The outsider. I was here first, right, and finder's keeper's.
I took a vow quite early on that I would never allow a camera to frame the two of us together. I have managed this. Here I am alone, as it should be.

I suppose I should be grateful to him for being here, because what it has taught me is I am a survivor. I know myself now. I know I can cope without cuddles, without regular bones, without the quantity of walks I had come to expect. I can cope, even, with eating those dry, hard biscuits day in, day out, which provide me only with nutritional sustenance and 0 satisfaction. I can do all of this because I am like Beyonce, independent, a survivor. But I won't pretend to like it.

They are the infidels. I will not go near them as long as he is present. I will not give them the chance to reject me further. Only when he is gone will I deign to approach and only when they have proven to me that they are undistracted by him can we be as one again, as we once were. So this is usually after about 7.30pm, when he is dormant, although this hour is getting later, which is a bit of a problem, for all of us it seems. For the longer he is awake the less, quiet, peaceful, oneness that I can have with them on the thing they call "sofa". The less they rub my neck and let me sniff their faces. Oh! I could live without food for a thousand years if they would only cuddle me!  

There has lately been talk of another potential issue. Another of the same small ones. Will they or won't they? I need to know. I need time to think about this. Honestly, the thought fills me with dread, because it would most certainly mean I will have to spend more unsupervised time with W.. W... W... I can't even say his name.

I didn't want to say this but I have to - he tried to kick me today. All because I tried to eat some of his cheese ("his" - there should be no such thing). There - I've admitted it. I'm being abused by the small one now. Luckily, Mummy (though she no longer deserves the title) did move me out the way and shouted at HIM for a change. But it does make me feel more unsafe. Even more so than I did before, what with him, the vacuum cleaner, the steam cleaner, the drill, the mop, the lawn mower and the hair dryer.

When will it end? Oh, when will it end? If only I could escape. But I can't can I? I'm here, stuck, alone, a dog in a house of imbeciles. No decent bones, no decent meat, no decent treats. Only the occasional piece of stolen cheese. A crumb of toast, sometimes with a smidge of butter. I can't take it. I need a lie down.