Today's one of those days where you're excited for the first hour, then bored for the rest of them. So we've reached out to some DCH friends and family and asked for some guest blog submissions. Our first guest blog comes from Tessa, the dog:
"When I looked out my apartment window this morning and saw ice, I knew there was trouble looming.
Ice on the roads and dangerous driving conditions mean two things for a dog like me: shorter walks, and my owner staying home from work.
My human is an “improviser.” My understanding of this is that this is supposed to make her funny and witty. Apparently, other humans pay money sometimes to watch her perform something that has neither been rehearsed nor discussed prior to the performance. Why humans would pay for this is beyond me. But I digress…
That other humans think my human is funny is an equally quizzical concept for my canine cranium. Over the years, I’ve collected some case studies on things my human does that she thinks are hilarious, but I fail to find the humor in them:
1) Putting things on my head: My human loves to put different things on my head and giggles wildly as she fumbles for her phone to snap a picture. Why do people like to see pictures of me wearing glasses? Why does the world need to see me in a Santa hat? I’m un-amused.
2) Making weird noises with her mouth: Sometimes I can barely make out the words through her mumblings and “accents.” Why does she think it is necessary to talk to me in a British accent in the morning? Lady, you’re not fooling anyone and I’m pretty sure your accent does not exist in any part of the world but your own mind. Yet – when friends come over, they also speak in weird accents at times and then laugh and laugh about how funny they sound. Here’s a note: You don’t sound funny.
3) Dancing with “Jazz Hands” and a “funny face”: I’ve seen this dance for years now. Open mouth. Spread out fingers. Lots of shoulders. If I was a human and could dance, I would never make such a mockery of a beautiful art form. Why your silly dancing entertains others is beyond me. I would much prefer an afternoon at the ballet.
4) Saying, “SQUIRREL!”: Why does my human taunt me by falsely claiming a rodent is runny wildly through our neighborhood streets? My best guess is that she enjoys my panic. I’m sorry: I care about keeping the neighborhood safe. I take my work very seriously. Yes – I will run adorably through the back and attempt to climb a tree, only to discover you have lied. Lies are not funny, human.
5) Telling others about my sleeping habits: What if I were to tell you that my human drools ever so slightly, moves her leg like she’s chasing something spectacular, and mumbles words in her sleep? Or that while we are watching the evening news, she occasionally lets out a little bit of smelly gas? Would you think it was adorable and funny? I would think not. So why is it funny to her and the world when I do it? I should hope you, reader, are more sophisticated than that.
This is just scraping the surface of the ice.
If I make it through the day without an embarrassing photograph being snapped, or witnessing something else “funny,” it will be a true Christmas miracle.
With gratitude for your support during this difficult time,
*Tessa's human is Maggie Rieth, and she teaches and performs at DCH most weekends.