I’m obsessed with my dog. I think he’s the greatest dog in the history of dogs. Even when he smells funny. Even when he eats my food I foolishly walked away from. Even when I’m cleaning his vomit off the carpet at 5:30 in the morning (oh hai, that morning was a blast). I just think he’s the bees knees.
He’s my sidekick. He follows me everywhere. He curls right up with me like a teddy bear whenever I want him to. Mostly he just waddles around the house looking all cute and shit.
As cute as my dog is, I’m fairly certain I see him differently than everyone else. It’s sort of like body dismorphic disorder except in reverse. Like in Shallow Hal where he only sees the best of her (or whatever that movie was supposed to tell me about society).
This is what the world sees when they look at Chewy (Princess Chewbacca Dalek Stinky Nugget Lovebug Floppy Ears Buddy Monster Derpy Bug Chunk Jess Johnson):
All regularly proportioned and junk. This is what I see when I look at Chewy:
You guys. He’s ALL EARS AND EYES.
That’s it. Just giant, suck-your-soul-out-of-your-damn-cranium puppy dog eyes paired with excessively large, ultra floppy, soft-as-the-softest-cloud in Heaven ears. The rest of his body exists only to hold up his ears and eyes.
Sometimes I don’t even think he has a torso.
He’s just eyes attached to ears attached to snuggles.
And today he turns 7. According to one of the charts at my vet’s office (but not all of them) he’s now a senior citizen. He doesn’t have any gray hair and he recently lost two pounds so he’s doing pretty well for himself in his old age. To celebrate, I got my dapper little guy a new bow tie collar (I’ve been taking pictures nonstop) and I’ll be stopping on the way home to get him a special puppy cookie dessert treat. YES. I’M SERIOUS.
No shame in my obsessed-with-my-puppy game.