Woof, this is Miles Schulten. While my mom is out taking pictures of another kid, I have been busy working on hacking into her blog. It’s a beautiful day, so I guess I can’t blame her for being away from her computer. She must be busy these days, because I notice that she hasn’t posted on her blog in a while. For weeks now, she has been building walls at the Durham Fair, watching my human siblings run aimlessly around cross country courses, and taking pictures of adolescents who have chosen to have her take their picture rather than using a perfectly decent selfie off their iPhones. I am writing to you to talk about a big problem that I have. I really need help and after reading a column in the New York Post called, “Dear Abby”, I thought, maybe some of my mom’s blog readers could help me like this “Abby" person who seems so adept at solving human's problems. Let me preface this by saying I don’t really know who I am. I’m a mutt. My past is a bit murky. I was told by my human mom that my dad was a big mastiff and my birth mom was a lab mix of some type. So we were unaware of my habitual tendencies until like most adolescents teens, troubles begin to bubble up. You see, it’s an age old problem I seem to have. While you humans may drool for a cigarette or a beer, or in my dad’s case, an endorphin fueled run or a bike ride, my obsession just may be exponentially more sinister. My need for this perfectly sphere shaped object is keeping me from having a decent night of sleep or getting anything done during the day. It’s become so bad that I have given up on chasing the UPS man out of the driveway thinking he may have a package of new spheres for me. The only thing that helps my mind briefly escape from this curse is an occasional dream of a curvaceous chocolate lab named CoCo. I call her Hot Coco…but I digress. The color, material or elasticity matters little. However, I do love the foamy mess that leaves a stain on the rug when I get an occasional sphere with yellow fuzz called Wilson. I believe that my human parents could have possibly contributed to my need for counseling when they bought a strange shaped stick called a “Chuck_it”, that helped the beautiful sphere go even further. In an effort to self medicate, I chewed up this throwing stick trying unsuccessfully to curb my habit, but ignorantly, my humans perpetuated the problem by purchasing me a new one that makes the sphere go even father. SOMEBODY HELP ME! Just the other day, while walking with my mom, I found a ball that I had dropped in the pond a few weeks back. It was better than Christmas, maybe even better than a date with hot Coco. So this is a plea to anyone who can read. I went so far as to write this message on the driveway so my humans would notice. Rather than get the message that I have a problem, my mom went running in to get her camera to snap a photo because she thought it was so cute. Maybe someday I’ll write about her photography “problem” and we can get some counseling together. Well I’m not sure if I have uploaded this photo correctly, after all, I have no opposable digits. But with the corner of my pad, maybe it worked. Please send more balls. "%$#&!” What I meant to say was please help me find a more healthy, life long passion.
Your loyal companion,
This is my favorite picture of my ball and I in the moonlight.