She Gets an Airplane. I Get Photoshop.

Oh, peeps. She’s really gone and done it this time.

Louise has flown the coop.

Left C.C. and me alone. Abandoned. Bereft. Forced to fend for ourselves.

Well, C.C. is here. And people keep coming over. I’m getting lots of attention, but that’s not the point.

The point is she left.

And if you require evidence of the woman’s guilt, I give you Exhibit A. (See photograph above.)

Do you see what she’s done?

She’s cut and pasted me into a photograph with my cousins.

Cut and pasted me! Oh the perfidy!

And apparently I’m supposed to be impressed by what she calls her creative inclusion of me.

Puhlease Louise.

Doesn’t she know inclusion requires actual inclusion? Physical presence. A body. Preferably mine.

Apparently, she thinks artistic licence includes digitally inserting my person into the festivities to compensate for leaving my actual person behind.

It does not.

Nice try, Louise.

My lawyers have saved the photograph.

They’re building the case.

The righteous shall prevail.

The facts are irrefutable. Exhibit B: She’s off traipsing around our old stomping grounds with those two vixens while I remain at home.

Does she not understand that I have old friends too?

Places to sniff?

Trees to revisit?

Important messages left on telephone poles that may require my immediate attention?

Nope. She does not.

She gets on an airplane. I get Photoshop.

The injustice is staggering.

Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that people have been coming to visit.

And Auntie Annie is walking me. Frequently.

She’s also providing rubs, cuddles and what I would describe as a far more appropriate quantity of treats than I generally receive under Louise’s administration.

This is completely irrelevant to my case.

Please disregard it.

The issue before us is abandonment.

And now, just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, I’ve received further intelligence.

She’s bringing the vixens home with her.

For. A. Week.

A WEEK!

Peeps, have you ever lived with food thieves?

I have.

Those two are professionals.

I lift my head from my bowl for ONE SECOND and WHAM!

Snout in.

No “Excuse me, Sir Beaumont.”

No “Would you mind terribly if I sampled your dinner?”

Not even an “If you’re finished…”

Nothing.

They’re animals.

I have standards.

So now, in addition to recovering from the emotional trauma of Louise’s abandonment, I am being forced to prepare for a home invasion.

I’ve begun hiding my valuables.

My ball is secure.

My favourite stuffy has been relocated to an undisclosed location.

The treats are a concern.

I’ve considered moving them myself, but apparently that’s “counter surfing.”

Humans have a label for everything.

(Sigh.)

What is a well-mannered, gentlemanly, sophisticated — and, lest we forget, royal — dog supposed to do?

I’ve been considering appropriate compensation.

A T-bone a week for a year seems reasonable.

Possibly two.

A new ball.

Sole custody of the treat cupboard.

And written assurances that any future travel involving my old stomping grounds includes Sir Beaumont of Sheepadoodle on the passenger manifest.

I’ve asked Carlos to draw up the papers.

(Remember him? The dude who helped her after she booked herself two seats on the same flight. Two seats. One Louise. You do the math.)

Come to think of it, I may have a diminished capacity case too.

What think you, peeps?

Am I being unreasonable?

Actually, don’t answer that.

I’m building a case here. 🐾