If there is one thing that can be said about me, it is that I am not a complainer. I have been told my numerous people that I am a very happy-go-lucky dachshund, a fact that I take great pride in. I very rarely get frustrated about anything besides the cat, but who can blame? He knows darn well that is my water dish. I don’t mess with his litter box, so the least he could do is drink his own water.
Lately, though, I have felt pretty blue. Things have been bringing me down quite a bit. I have found it difficult to enjoy the things I used to love. That squeaky toy’s squeak seems less jolly. The food I steal off of the human’s plates when they aren’t looking seems bland and inadequate. I can’t even seem to enjoy the simple pleasure of rubbing my butt on the rug. I couldn’t figure it out. I mean, I seem to have it all. I have a great set of teeth, my coat is shiny.
Then, yesterday, it hit me. I was looking out the front door as I always do on Tuesday evenings when I saw him.
The neighbor’s boxer came bounding across the lawn. His head was held high as he sprinted through the grass, the breeze flapping at his ears. I suddenly knew the problem.
I am too short.
How can I aspire to greatness when I spend all day staring at feet? Feet are disgusting. I am stuck walking about with my nose next to some human’s loafer or worse, a sandal. The smells… oh the smells! If I were a human, I would spend all day washing my feet just to avoid the musk of toe jam and sweaty shoes.
There is no way for me to escape this. At best, I can jump up and be at knee level for a couple of seconds, but that will only go so far. I know that deep down inside, there is a great amount waiting to get out, but as I watched that boxer racing about, his tall muscular legs pumping, I knew that I would never, ever be that dog.
So I barked at him. I barked a lot. It turns out I am an excellent barker. I instantly felt better about myself and the boxer went on his way.
He may be taller than me, but I’m pretty sure I could take him.