100 bad days

Listen up, humans—Emma is dragging me through AJR’s playlist like it’s my personal soundtrack. “100 Bad Days”? Oh yeah, that one’s mine. I’ve had at least 100 bad days stuck at home waiting for her while she’s out “living her best life.” Spoiler alert: I’m not invited to the concert. (Fine. I’ll have Big Bear and the couch kingdom all to myself. Royal treatment, baby.)

Yesterday, she ditched me for Anne’s house. No Lucy hangout for me—apparently, Emma needed yet another pool fix. Like, seriously, doesn’t she spend enough time splashing around here? Why does she need OTHER pools? After that, she trotted off to El Corelo. No bean tostadas on the menu, but she wouldn’t stop bragging about how “pretty darn tasty” the tacos were. Oh, really? Did you bring me a taco? NO. You came home smelling like beef and chlorine and gave me nothing. Not. A. Crumb. I am currently drafting my formal complaint. She did bring leftover beans and rice, but let’s see if that actually makes it into my bowl. (Not holding my breath. And I have excellent lungs.)

Later, she tried to make it up to me with a walk. We ran into Tony, the husky guy. His dogs? Tasha and Dolby—very cool. I haven’t had many solid meet-and-sniffs since Chewy was around. That guy—bless him—thought every single being on Earth was a “bad guy.” I miss the old grump, though. Tasha’s my age, so naturally, we hit it off. Dolby’s alright, too.

Life is good, folks. Honestly, I might just be the happiest dog in Indianapolis. Definitely the best-looking. (Don’t even try to argue—it’s a fact.)