Greetings, dear readers! I have been longing to talk to you, and I get to talk to you two weeks in a row. Someone had been hogging the blog space. I won’t mention any names, but you know who I mean. She is off having a glass of wine, so now is my opportunity. She says it’s her reward for a productive day of writing …
On Facebook, they ask you, “What is on your mind?” Well, I have to tell you about the horrible, ghastly experience I had today. I was looking in the mirror this morning. (Yes, I do look in the mirror. You humans have the oddest misconceptions of canines.) The sunshine was slanting through the window, and my glossy auburn coat gleamed. My intelligent-yet-sensitive eyes were sparkling. My whiskers were perky, and my eyebrows, perfect arches.
I decided to check my lovely feet with their shiny black nails. Humans would pay big bucks for nails as lovely and naturally black as mine. They have to paint their nails black, but they never achieve the luster and depth of color that I have. I sighed contentedly and thanked the Creator for my regal beauty. I don’t think you could find a more perfect dachshund.
And that is when I saw it. What horror! I became faint and staggered back a foot or two. It couldn’t be … Then I went closer to the mirror to check for imperfections or dirt. Oh no, it was true. There, on my lovely right forepaw, was a white hair. What to do? Oh, what to do?
Then I remembered that she colored her hair. Don’t tell her I told you that, but I mean, really? Blonde hair at her age? But me, I am forever young, forever beautiful, and I have been told that princesses never get white hairs. Perhaps I could dye the offending hair. But I really don’t have access to a groomer since my short-haired coat really maintains itself. There was nothing for it but to pull out the offending hair.
“Marcy Mary, why are you staring at yourself in the mirror? I know you are vain, but why the sour face?”
My feline sibling Kotty had entered the room. She is a Siamese cat with a brown face, ears, and tail on almost white fur, which is probably sun-damaged from spending most of her time baking in the sun on the roof. I was so distraught I told her my sorry tale.
She looked at me with her cool blue eyes. “Marcy Mary, you are wrong. You don’t have one white hair on your foot. You have three white hairs on your foot.” After delivering that cheery bit of news with a smirk, she sashayed out of the room.
I looked at my foot, and it was true. How could that be? Had they started multiplying before my very eyes? I started licking the offending hairs and yuck! Cat hairs were in my mouth. But I was so happy! I ran to my water bowl and rinsed my tongue, content that once again, I was forever young … unlike you know who— the one who hogs the blog.