I am Swirl.
I am a good boy.
Yesterday, I killed a hat. It was a hat for the Milwaukee Brewers. They only play in front of cardboard people so it doesn’t matter. Besides, I don’t think the people here are on the team anyway.
I know it was an American hat. I heard them talking about it this morning at the dog park. I guess there was a Made in America label that showed up, you know, in my leavings on the trail. “Oh my God,” the lady said. “It’s clear as can be. Made in America!” I found that demeaning. The inspection of my detritus. And so public. As if I have no feelings.
Down the trail at the dog park, there was a puppy. The puppy looked like a dog but also like a squirrel. So it was confusing. And then we went home and they decided to wash my blanket so I took a green napkin off the table in what they call the nook to hold in my paws. I’m very fabric oriented.
After the hat died, the lady went on Amazon and bought a bunch of tough chewer bones. She loves me but she doesn’t understand. I want cloth. Shirts and pants and napkins. A tablecloth would be a fabulous present. A bedspread. A dozen pairs of white socks.
I used to be a sled dog. I lived outside all the time. But not anymore. Now I have all the things to keep me warm and I want to eat them.