Pardon My French

Couldn't sleep last night.  I got the arthritis in my hips, which is as painful as it sounds. Don't get me wrong, the aches have eased up out here in sunny CA.  I don't have to walk up four flights of stairs and the dry heat seems to be doing these old bones good.  Our new building even comes with a swimming pool and sauna, which technically the HOA won't allow me access to.  But technically, those old bitches can kiss my furry ass.  Pardon my French.

So it's better out here, but some nights, it still keeps me up.  I'm 91.  Whaddya gonna do?

But last night, I couldn't sleep, so I hopped on the Apple TV to check out some new photos my owners put up.  (Sidebar: I love Apple TV.  Especially the remote.  It's so intuitive.  And crunchy.  I'm always looking for products I believe in to endorse.  Are you listening Steve Jobs?  I can see the ad copy already.  "Apple TV: so simple a 91-year-old dog from Brooklyn with arthritic hips can use it."  Done.  End of story.  Where's my paycheck?)

Anyhoo, I'm gliding through the photo albums when it occurs to me: In the last month, my crazy - pardon my French - SOB owners have dragged me to wine country, the desert, the beach, AND the mountains.  I'm 91 friggin' years old!  It's no wonder I can't sleep on account of my hips!

But that's the thing about humans.  You whimper, walk around in circles, pant heavily, give 'em the "sad  eyes," and what do they do?  They lock you in the back seat of the car while they go into a roadside diner to eat waffles.

I'm not complaining, I'm just saying, sometimes it's hard to be a dog.

By the way, I saw this crazy SOB - pardon my French - running around on one of our trips. Young, spunky, full of life, powerful haunches... ah, to be 3 again.