They say all dogs love a walk, well, not all of us, because I don’t like them at all.
I hate wearing a harness. Before my Dad drags me outside for a walk, he secures my harness upside down, then takes it off; then, he puts it on with my right leg out, then my left. During each attempt, he says words that would be censored on HBO. By the time he is done, I no longer need to pee.
I go down the steps reluctantly, loathing the outside, where my Dad insists on walking longer because he's under the influence of the footwear lobby. I walk to the end of the driveway, turn up the street, and as soon as my house disappears from view, I am on my back legs, trying to return home, where I sleep and play with my toys. Also problematic is that we live in a trailer park, and someone can steal my home while I am on a forced march, and I will never see it or mommy again. It is very concerning.
My angel siblings have encouraged me to enjoy the walk and, while doing so, read and leave pee-mail to learn about other dogs in the neighborhood, but I am from a new generation. We don’t read pee-mail; we text. Also, most of the messages are pedantic, like “mommy bought me a new bone,” which is boring, unlike when Mommy buys me a new bone, which is more exciting than a loose pig in PetSmart on Easter Bunny Day.
If anyone sees us, Daddy, on his two legs, walking forwards, and me walking backward, it looks like we are doing the Targeyan Dance of the Dragons; in reality, it is an epic battle of wills. Spoiler Alert: I always win, having been born with a Griffon’s infinite patience. After five minutes of backpedaling, Dad gave up and took me home.
But inside my home lived the Judge, called Big Mama, who said I had to walk for a few minutes a day or I would become a beach ball. So, for up to ten minutes a day, my Dad and I continuously walk outside our tiny houses like Joe Pesci and Daniel Stern, stalking the McCallister place on Christmas Eve. I don’t mind; I get to keep an eye on my house while bringing in my steps.
And most importantly, I won a battle of wills again. In record time, I will have these folks wrapped around my paw by the New Year.