I am Lord Stafford Hall Grant, and this is my annual synopsis of the year past. It is with great sorrow that I bring you this recapitulation. The last 365 days have been ridden with woe, thanks to the Bastard Hound who was thrust upon me late 2010. Said creature has taken great pleasure in repeatedly stealing my 2011 spotlight. In stark contrast, this year has been wonderful for my minion humans--a marriage for Tom and Angie with a honeymoon in the
, a new domicile for all of us with room to cavort and make merry mayhem, AB Honor Roll for Master Wesley Boles, Dean’s List for Lady Jessica, and an acceptance to the prestigious Citadel for Lord Paul. Yet, I weep…in addition to my reign as Alpha male continually being challenged, I have suffered multiple health issues and have been confined nightly in my crate. Topping it all off, I have been hidden away during family functions, thus depriving the general public of my many charming attributes. Bahamas
The dog called Moe Moe should have been dead months ago; alas his passing remains mysteriously at bay. Daily, he eats out of my royal dish and hogs my toys. His favorite pastime is blocking my path from the den to the great room by positioning his freakishly elongated body sideways. He growls each time I make an approach.
As I am prone to excessive ear wax production, The Creature oft corners me to lick said wax out of my ears in an act of blatant irreverence. I must admit that on many levels I enjoy this, a forbidden act in the Grant household. However, I tend to feel cheap and dirty following these audiologic escapades…another way Bastard Hound attempts to thwart my power.
Besides the annoyance of Dead Dog Walking, I have been struck with odd ailments that have made 2011 difficult. Yeast infection in my facial folds, severe conjunctivitis that required optical steroid use, and an embarrassing scrotum malady plagued me. I will take this opportunity to aver that I have overcome the awkward nature of this last illness in an effort to raise awareness to the affliction commonly known as “Raw Balls.” As an English Bulldog, I possess a genetic predisposition for many conditions, including Raw Balls. Through education, therapy, and an Elizabethan dog collar, I have recovered and found the courage to disclose my painful journey so that no others must suffer. Besides an interesting discolored area, my scrotum is back to normal. I would be remiss if I did not add that the high stress of living with Bastard Hound has weakened my delicate immune system and most certainly caused the aforementioned afflictions.
My crate reappeared after I urinated on my new dog bed for the second time. In an effort to “stick it to” the Bastard Hound, I peed on my own bed. Yes, oh dear readers, I know this speaks to my pure disdain toward him, for me to sink to this level, but it worked beautifully the first time. My human underlings assumed that I would NEVER soil my OWN bed. And given my nemesis’ failing excretory system, plus his bend toward bullying, he was the obvious culprit. Thus, ‘twas Moe Moe who faced nocturnal confinement in the master suite for a wonderful 4 weeks…until I again peed on my bed, then completed my restful slumber that evening on the forbidden recliner…where I was found in the morn…by Lord Tom. Why, you might ask, would I again wet my bed? I do not have an explanation…only the English Bulldog is the third stupidest breed of dog, according to Wikipedia. Truth bites.
And, because of a feverish pursuit of the pipe dream to remain Alpha male, I am no longer allowed to enjoy parties and family functions. Pre-Bastard Hound days, when guests visited the Grant Clan manor, I was the center of attention with my adorable wrinkles and flat face. Guests would flock to love on me despite my flatulent nature. With his bizarrely long ears and malformed stubby legs, it is around he that guests congregate. I had no choice but to perform some attention-seeking activity. Activity du jour…leg humping. Alas, no more appearances at social functions.
So, there you have it…the grief that was 2011. Moe Moe will be 12 years old in January, even though the life span of the God-forsaken breed is 8 to 10 years. He is showing no sign of decline. Apparently it is true that having a sense of purpose in life will increase longevity. Unfortunately for me, Canine Methuselah’s sole aspiration is making me miserable, 24/7. Wishing all of you well in 2012, and may it be Basset-free!
With warmest regards, I am
Lord Stafford Hall Grant