So many apologies in the delay since my previous blog. Things have been insane here at the house. Basically over the previous nine months, mom’s belly has gotten larger and people gave her presents because of it. I don’t get humans.
And dad — oh my gosh, dad. I literally have not seen him this excited since the time he went to Costco and saw that giant jug of mayonnaise for sale. He’s been on cloud nine. That’s cloud 63 for dogs, BTW.
So anyways, for several weeks, mom and dad sat around the house. He was nervous, she was getting annoyed. Not like Dale-just-ate-my-gelato-and-then-fled-to-South-Korea-annoyed like she was earlier in the year, but annoyed. (That incident is worth its own blog altogether. I about texted Dale and suggested he take up asylum in the American embassy until Whole Foods restocked that shizz.)
She would look at her belly and say, “We can’t wait to meet you! Come on!” I’ve never looked at my belly and spoken to it. That’s so weird. Granted I’ve barked at my own fart from time to time, but this was just light years beyond the pale.
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So one night when I’m out having my evening cigar and vodka gimlet with the bison, we put our heads together and come up with some possibilities to explain their weird behavior.
1. Maybe dad is nervous because he has another one of those eBay auctions going and he’s currently the highest bidder on a discarded plate of tater tots once eaten by Reb Wickersham or whatever the hell else he hoards in his newfound copious free time.
2. Maybe talking to your own belly is like the most recent new-age hippie shizz that people do like what Danica Patrick was doing when she was charging crystals and all that weirdo Gwyneth-Paltrow-whatever.
3. Dad is just acting nervous because he is going to be in the TV booth for NASCAR on NBC in the very near future. Granted I’ve watched races with him at home and he’s really good at yelling at the TV so I’m sure he’ll be good at calling races. Maybe his sentences will be punctuated with the occasional “HOT DAMN!” and “BOY HOWDY!” like they are at home.
4. That gorgeous new room they put in the house with all the pink draperies and that really nice open-top dog cage is all mine for being a very good boy all these years. (NOTE: I’M TOLD IT IS CALLED A ‘CRIB’)
So we go about our business and then suddenly one day out of nowhere they’re all like “It’s time!” and they just leave. They run out the door like me after a jerky truck. And they’re just gone. No explanation. No, “Hey, while we’re gone Gus is in charge.” Nothing.
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So OK, when your parents suddenly leave the house, what do you do? THROW A RAGER, THAT’S WHAT. I book a DJ and begin filling the swimming pool with Gravy Train. Calling my homeys. It’s like the start of Snoop Dogg’s “Gin & Juice” video. I try to get Migos to come by. Like, we’re getting turnt AF tonight.
Then I look out the window. Junebug, the bison and various deer start gathering beneath the treehouse like it’s Pride Rock and and one of the deer starts singing the opening lines to “Circle Of Life,” I’m like ‘OK, why am I always the last to know things around here?’ Do you have any idea how pissed off Migos gets when you gotta cancel on them? Hint: A lot. Thanks, dad. Whatever the hell you’re doing caused me to set Clint Bowyer’s flamethrower to the bridge between myself and MIGOS.
FREAKIN’ MIGOS. Whatever.
So suddenly I see them rolling down the driveway. They pull up and get out of the car. And they’re like, ecstatic and carrying something wrapped in a blanket that I’m really hoping is maybe a honeybaked ham because I’m hungry and I haven’t eaten since I had to cancel on Migos.
It’s not a ham. It’s a small human. The smallest human I have ever seen. And I’ve hung out with Justin Allgaier at the shop.
It’s a tiny girl named Isla, but they tell me the “s” is silent so whenever I bark her name I make sure not to pronounce it.
When they first got me the first thing they had me do was poop in Martin Truex Jr.’s motorcoach. They haven’t done that with her yet. Not to my knowledge, at least.
She seems to sleep most of the day. Now THIS I am all about. Her and I already have something in common. Except she has this weird swing device they put her in when she wants to sleep. I have tried climbing into it to try it out when she isn’t using it, and I knock the thing over. I’m like the size of Chewbacca now. I feel like Andre The Giant trying to climb into a soap dish.
Anyways, we’re getting along great right now. And I’m told that soon she’ll be sitting in something called a “high chair” when she’s eating food and likely dropping like 85 percent of it on the ground so basically every day gonna be like my birthday. Nah, really, she’s cool, even if she doesn’t really know any tricks yet aside from crying and getting a butt-ton of likes on Instagram.
Anyways, off to hopefully mend fences with Migos. Until next time.
— Gus