Dog with a blog? You read it here first, while I was sleeping

A sunny day, a thick carpet, and dreams of the canine variety:
does life get better than this?

Look, I'm far from the only canine chronicling his life via the blogosphere. So I'm not sure I should sue for a production credit for the Disney sitcom Dog with a Blog. (Although another telling parallel exists: Stan, the show's dog, and I both are adopted.)

Yet here is the essential question: with so many stellar examples, as well as the enormous chunk of change that must go into producing said show, does the actual blog have to be so lame? I've been at this blogging gig for awhile now, and this Stan is clearly a neophyte. Perhaps he could use some ghost-written entries, which I'd be happy to supply.

Actually, I read several years ago, just as I began to scratch my writing itch, that blogging was passe. I'm what you'd call a late adopter, so that was the best I could do...but Disney? One would think that of all companies, they'd be out in front of things, media and technology-wise.

I can't vouch for the show itself, which I learned about from listening to Wait, Wait... Don't Tell Me! on WBUR.  Besides destroying brain cells, watching TV interferes with prime sleeping time. I can assure you, there's no media in my man-cave. It's designed for one thing only: sleep.

Weighing in on the election

I tried to stay up, but I just could not keep my eyes open.

No, I don't plan to reveal my political choice, but my weight. At least, some assessments of my weight, which happened to coincide with the presidential election.

Two pieces of data: one, the suggestion by someone who observed my refusal to get in the wagon that a forklift might be in order; and two, the rating of my avoirdupois as something less than ideal by the vet at the Natick Animal Clinic. While I did lose two neck sizes this summer, the weight seems to have creeped up a bit.

Actually, there is one more datapoint: when my friend Lucy's mom made me sit for a treat, she noticed my protruding belly. I was a bit embarrassed, but not so much that I refused to eat. You know—"I'm starting my diet tomorrow" kind of thing.

So it's a good thing that I have another day o' fun planned at Natick Animal Clinic's kennels. Given that my home is under construction, placing several of my favorite sleeping places off-limits, when I removed there, I honestly did not want to leave. I'm looking forward to this second visit. With three hours of playtime, I might burn off some extra calories. Then, when Mom comes to pick me up, and I refuse to get in the car (it really is a regular thing), she'll give me plenty of extra treats to make up for any calories I lose. Because she doesn't have a forklift.

Exclusive photos of my man cave!

Man-cave, pre-"improvement." I saw nothing
wrong with it at all.

I like it when my life nicely dovetails with trends of the day, so the newsworthy addition of the term "man cave" to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary prompts me to reveal my favorite retreat.

However, my man-cave is under threat of that most frightening of phrases: "home improvement." Alas, the cushy carpet is giving way to a wood floor. A hard wood floor. Its installation promises lots of noise, strangers  in and out, associated mess, complete loss of privacy. The aftermath: discomfort.

The whole business is enough to make me seek the shelter of my cave. But I can't get there—off limits until the home improvement is complete.

Initially, I headed to the depths of my sister's closet whenever thunder threatened, but it's become so comfy that I sleep there pretty regularly—say, every night.

It's nicely fitted up with a sleeping bag, a dog bed (size XL), an extra sleeping bag that makes a perfect pillow. Or it was fitted up. With three of my favorite sleeping options off-limits (my room's being redone, too). I've moved into my parents' closet for now. Hope they don't get any more improving ideas.

Post-Halloween tricks (and lots of treats)

With my new fox from Petco,
the spoils from a previous
expedition.

I didn't go out trick-or-treating, preferring to curl up inside and come roaring down the stairs to check out the costumes. So yesterday I cruised around Wellesley Square looking to play some tricks. Hoping for treats in return, I was primed.

First I headed to Wellesley Books, where I announced my arrival with a loud bay. My minions came running. With such advance notice, Barry scooted around the front desk to proffer a treat, thus preventing my usual attack on the box o' Milk Bones that resides there. Rebecca gave me due admiration. Having wreaked a modicum of post-Halloween havoc, I was off.

My next stop: Pinnacle Real Estate, which trustingly leaves out a bowlful of unattended treats (much like some folks do at Halloween) as well as some refreshing water. And much like some of those trick-or-treaters when faced with said unattended bowl, I went for it. The whole thing. Quickly. So when Mom tried to pull my face out of the bowl, I knocked over everything--so much easier to grab treats off the ground!

Today, I, red-faced, returned to Pinnacle to resupply the bowl—after I trotted over to Petco Unleashed to pick up two bags o'treats for myself.