I love riding in cars. When Mum or Dad opens the door to the garage, I wait to hear, “Let’s go,” and then I bound down the stairs. Trust me; I typically amble; I don’t bound. I can think of only three bound-worthy destinations: down to the garage and hopefully a car, up the driveway to the kitchen door, and out the door for a walk.
When I hit the garage, I head to Mum’s little red sports car. It’s my preferred ride, not because it’s red, though that’s Mum’s favorite color, but because it’s easy to climb into. I clamber into the back seat and settle right down. I’ve tried sitting in the front seat, but for some reason, Mum always shoos me to the back. As for Dad’s SUV; it’s not that I dislike it; it’s comfy and roomy, but Dad has to boost me up into the back of it. He grabs my collar and my rump, and up I go. And you ask, “ Lord Banjo, why don’t you bound into the SUV?”
I have a darned good reason for refusing to make that leap. In my youth, I jumped into an SUV, and my tender paw came down on a prickly pine cone. Ever since then, I’ve been veddy, veddy careful about where I leap. I am one smart dog.
This week, I rode around in Mum’s little car delivering books. Mum dressed me in my purple robe and off we went. It was a fun day, with one exception. More on that in a moment.
For the first stop, we pulled up to the Tall Tales Book Shop, and Mum unloaded me and a box of my books. It’s a shame they’ve misspelled their name. Shouldn’t it be Tall Tails? No matter, we dropped off my books, and the shopkeeper oohed and aahed over me and gave me belly rubs.
Next, we headed to the Enchanted Forest, a magical gift shop, where everyone was tickled to see me in my regal attire. While Mum chit-chatted and conducted business, I reclined on a rug and received another dose of belly rubs.
Who cares about book business? Pour moi, it’s all about the belly rubs. Our final stop was the Village Vet. I thought we were just checking on the book supply, but sadly, I was mistaken. First, Mum asked me to hop up on the scales. Rut ro, I thought. You may recall from my book that I was on a strict diet last year and I lost ten pounds. With the help of the Royal Physician, I transformed myself into a lean, mean, fighting machine.
Unfortunately, I weighed in a few pounds heavier this summer, so I was a tad concerned about what the scales would say. Given how strictly Mum has been monitoring my food intake, I hoped the results would be positive. What does food monitoring look like? Dad measures my portions, and Mum gives me only teeny-tiny treats. My treats are called Itty Bitty Biscuits, and they sure are! Each one is about the size of Mum’s fingertip. All of that I take in stride. The change that gets to me is how vigilant Mum and Dad are about Princess Puddin’s food dish. The Princess is very finicky, which works out great for me. She sniffs her food, maybe takes a dainty lick, and then walks away. I think she appreciates me taking care of her leftovers so that she gets fresh food whenever she meows.
Whether or not the Princess appreciates my dish cleaning abilities, the Royal Parents do not. They hover over Puddin’s dish, and as soon as she walks away, they scoop it up. Every once in a while, Mum gets distracted cooking dinner or talking on the phone, and I sneak a snack, but not often. The giveaway seems to be the sound of the kitty dish moving across the floor as my telescoping tongue licks the remains. I’m so talented; I can clean it out with one swipe, but Mum always hears me and starts fussing. By the time she huffs, “Darn it, Banjo, stay out of the cat food,” it’s too late.
But hey, the scales revealed good news! I’ve lost the extra pounds and am back down to my fighting weight. If only we’d left on that happy note. Much to my dismay, we moved to an exam room, where I heard the dreaded words, “rabies shot.” Fortunately for all involved, I take my shots like a man, and we were done in no time. I couldn’t believe my ears when the vet said, “You know, we have to muzzle some dogs because they wig out when it’s time for a shot.” Really? How undignified. The Royal Pooch is always a perfect patient.
With book deliveries done for the day, the Royal Mum, a.k.a. The Royal Chauffer, drove home in time for me to stretch out for my afternoon nap. I was wise to rest up because Lord Banjo’s Delivery Service had a new job the next day. Look for the story of my debut at Bark Fifth Avenue coming soon.
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