Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

I 'm not sure that I believe Ricky. I don't thinks he tells all of the words like there s'pose to be said. I think he tells tales about his leg but he blames me when his leg accidentally gets inside my mouth and it sometimes gets bit a little. He should watch that.
I wanted to say that I'm a good swimmer. I can fetch sticks and balls better than Ricky. When they fall in the water too. Ricky loves me.

First Cake

I've been meaning to mention. Inigo had his first birthday the other day. It was a day or two ago, April- 11th, I think. no big deal. He got a cake.

The cake was homemade from one of Mom's friends, she thinks all of his little idiotsyncrasies are cute. The cake had a little cookie and fondant (that's a fancy name for frosting You can't eat) voodoo effigy of himself perched right on top of the cake part. Further-more, the whole of it had handmade fondant miniatures of his lair pride: shoes, electric blanket, fish skeletons, peppered around his little snicker doodle self; like his wanton destruction of every ones belongings is cute and should be immortalized even for the life of a birthday cake. It's not and it shouldn't.

Honestly, I tried in vein to get past Mom and gain purchase of the cookie filled frosting skin; give it some well deserved preemptive thrashing while he was outside squeezing out a stinky little yard worm. A little bad mojo into the business end, whatever end that is, of that little fondant Inigo to slow the real one down when he comes for me with his little gnashing teeth. No such luck, Mom's skills have been sharpened with his continued presence.

My only consolation to the birthday of Inigo is that my birthday is soon, May 2nd, and the Inigo shape was forced into a zip-loc and retired to the back of the freezer behind a frostbitten bag of peas.

That fairly well sums up Inigo's big first birthday. Oh, and apparently he can fetch and swim.
Blathering on between bites of my left leg he says, 'Really, really, really good."

Oh Bother, Where Art Thou

I've been plagued with ailments as of late; foremost, the injury of which I sustained from the teeth of Inigo's eager jaw. Mom comes home and he gets so worked up he wraps his little rugged gums and teeth around everything; Mom's shirt sleeves or her left pant leg, my leash and my left leg (which has no benefit of sleeve or pants). Annoying on it's own the chewing is, but most frustrating when I'm actually trying to use what he is eagerly biting. Why he chooses the left leg of his victim is beyond me. However, it is my left leg which has most recently been effected. It gotten better.

I've had problems with my eyesight too. Mom says I have catreacts. I probably got them from Sissy's cat Bug; the fear of her fogging my vision glazing my pupils so as to erase or minimise at least the udder dread I feel when I'm brought: leashed, soullessly and struggling into her domicile. The memory of her lashing out of her lurky spot and stranding herself, if only for a moment, on the island which is my head has been burned forever in my retinas and now clouds my vision.

Inigo oft refuses to enter taking full advantage of the length of his leash and waits outside the door. Mom non the wiser, the closed door between them artificially crimping the feel of slackiness to the leash, tricking her into believing Inigo actually followed her past the doors threshold. Oh he's safe. Mom will catch on, "Yoink!" he'll get sucked in and most likely pounced on. It's a camber of horrors really. Lately, Bug has been better, but my retina's are burned. I have the catreacts.

Here I sit, healing. Favoring my left leg, unable to gauge proper distance due to the catreacts, unsure if Beetle is waiting to launch himself at me should I jump down or sabotage my efforts should I jump up. Life is a series of obstacles, I wish I had a treat. Treats make it better.