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.