Stressful Saturday

pastaDear Tony,

We've known each other for a long time now, and although I usually keep quiet about these things, I really need to convey my feelings to you now. To cut to the chase...I'm not happy.

The day started off rather well this morning. It was Saturday, which meant that I would have to accompany you longer than normal for the daily walk that you seem to enjoy so much. Now don't get me wrong. I don't really mind taking you for walks. It's just that sometimes you don't listen to me, and you end up heading off in some random direction. You have no idea how worried I get when you don't hold onto the leash properly and I lose sight of you.

What if some random dog comes along and leads you astray? Have you ever considered that? I mean...have you ever thought about how that would affect me?

After all these years, I would've thought that you'd be better trained by now, but obviously some people never learn. What to do...

pastaAnyway, the weather was really nice this morning, so I was entirely content to put up with your misguided meanderings if it made you happy.

In fact, things started looking really good when you decided to take the car for a spin. This generally means I have to do less work keeping track of you, and I can simply sit back, enjoy the scenery and quietly reminisce about times gone by, when you were more energetic, much more attentive to my needs, and generally less stubborn.

With the nice, warm spring sun and a cool, crisp breeze, I was beginning to think that the day wouldn't turn out half bad after all. And of course, that's when things took a turn for the worse.

Before I realised what was going on, you had stopped the car. I hopped out to escort you around the park, beach, forest or wherever you had decided to take your walk...only to find myself in front of the Evil Place. Yes, the place where I get poked, prodded, groped, squeezed, manhandled and, worst of all, stuck with a plethora of needles as if I were some wicked seamstress's golden pincushion.

pastaWhat, pray tell, led you to believe that I would want to spend a perfectly good Saturday morning in this loathsome house of horrors?

Seriously, in the many times that you've tricked me into accompanying you to this place with the strange people in labcoats holding shiny pointy things, nothing good has ever happened to me (at least not that I can remember, given that sometimes I fall asleep here and wake up really groggy hours later wondering where I am, how I got there, and where the heck you've disappeared to).

This time was no exception. Some guy was poking around my posterior without my consent...which you know I really don't like. And to add insult to indignity, his hands were too cold! How would you like to have some strange guy putting his ice-cold hands on your rear end?

pastaAnd one more thing: Why is it that every time we end up in this scary building, I'm the only one who gets pinched and jabbed? I don't see you volunteering to get on the big silver table and let the crazy people do unspeakable things to you. Where's the justice in that?

So to sum up, if you'd like continue our relationship on amicable terms, please don't ever take me to that place again. In case I haven't expressed this to you clearly enough before...I do not like being poked with needles by some strange man while being held down by his short but diabolical assistants. It doesn't matter how many times you say "It's ok." It's not ok! Ok?

As you may have ascertained from the tone of this correspondence, today was a very stressful Saturday for me. Don't ever let this happen again.




PS: For a few (six to be exact) extra chewy snacks (the big ones, not the tiny rip-offs you sometimes try to fob off on me) , I'm willing to forget this incident ever took place.