I have been told I need to make a New Year’s Resolution. I don’t know why it is necessary. I am perfect in every way. What is there to be resolute about?
Arguably, I improved myself last year by losing weight. I did not resolve to do it, but, in my attempts to impress humans, I will claim any slight self-improvement I achieve is because of a resolution I made. It makes me look like I can accomplish my goals and spruces up a resume.
Pocket makes a New Year’s resolution every year. I understand why she does it. She has a lot of room for improvement. Pocket has been making them for thirteen years, six with me, and she hasn’t gotten any better. This year she resolves to not bark at everything she sees. I don’t know why. I do the same thing, but I think it is an attribute.
I could ignore the whole resolutions thing, but everyone in my family is making them, from my mom resolving not to have any medical procedures to my Dad resolving not to have to take care of mommy after her procedures — quite a wide range of lofty goals.
So I had to come up with something. But what could it be? I couldn’t get any better looking. That was impossible. It was going to have to be a change in personality, but I was reluctant to modify anything because I am utterly charming.
I discussed my problem with Pocket. “You could resolve to stop attacking me,” she offered. I looked at her curiously. Why would I want to do that? Anyway, I am justified in my attacks. I only do it when she moves around the bed and startles me (I am not the best waker upper) when I have established a cuddle position next to Mommy when I think she is trying to usurp me, or when I am bored.
But I agreed because I had no improvements I could make. "I will not attack Pocket" meets the minimum qualifications for a resolution. Preceding preliminary strikes would not make me a better dog. It was just giving up a habit I enjoyed. I should have saved it for Lent.
On the night of January 1, I was happily sleeping under the covers when Pocket jostled, waking me with a start. I bared my teeth and prepared to lunge. “Resolution!” Pocket said. I sat down. This sucked.
The next morning I was sitting on Mommy’s lap when Pocket jumped up on her legs and pawed me to move over. I wanted to snap at Pocket so bad! But I didn’t. This was torture.
When we were eating Pocket looked at me while I was licking my plate. Unacceptable! I don’t want anyone eyeballing my food. But I couldn’t do anything. This resolution was only two days old, and I was stressed out.
That night in bed, when Pocket tried to steal my snuggle spot, I couldn’t take it any longer. I jumped at her and gave her a nip on the leg. “You broke your resolution!” a shocked Pocket exclaimed.
Yes, I had. When someone resolves to stop smoking cigarettes, then breaks down and takes that first glorious puff, it is a great feeling, but nowhere near as good as the rush I got snapping at Pocket.
I wish I had made resolutions before. They may be a bother to make, but they are a blast to break.