She comes to visit, too often in my opinion. The word on the street is that she is my Beloved Mistress’s sister. She certainly has a similar tone to her voice and scent to her being, but she will remain The Visitor.
Gentle Reader, this past weekend was so traumatic that I have no recourse but to put paw to pen in the hopes that relaying the events will bring some solace to my overwhelmed soul.
The Visitor arrived Thursday without anyone consulting me, of course. I stationed myself outside her door when she went to bed to safeguard the silver. For the life of me I can’t understand the human attachment to silver, which can’t be eaten in the most trying of circumstances, but humans value it, so I must guard against its theft. The Visitor has no scruples, so I must guard against everything.
She was still here Friday morning. My Beloved Mistress and I went on our morning constitutional, as per usual, but The Visitor came along, as she always does, thus ruining my day. She just doesn’t take a hint, or a whiff or a scent.
Imagine the trauma when, as we are walking along, one of those fast moving vehicles drives by; there’s a familiar scent, though not my Beloved Master’s, and my Beloved Mistress gets in and is whisked away. The Visitor had the diabolical cunning to attach my leash so that I could not give chase, and try as I might to escape her clasp, I could not.
I was desperate. I called to every passing vehicle to protest my restraint and plead my case for my freedom but her dominance prevailed. Once or twice she broke my resolve with her beef flavored treats, thus making me follow her, but upon recovering my dignity I steadfastly refused to move and continued my plea to passers by. I was in fact reunited with my Beloved Mistress, though she is so in thrall to The Visitor that she could not understand my desperation at our seperation.
The Visitor is still here, though I have repeatedly asked her to go home. I do not understand much of human behavior, including why there is a farmers market on Saturday morning in a nearby town. As far as I can tell, this is an event where humans come to make friends: they barter unusable good like fruits, vegetables, flowers and other non-consumables just to exchange pleasantries, even in the most trying of weather circumstances. I have tried to explain to my Beloved Master and Mistress that making friends only requires smelling one another’s butts and chasing about a yard in search of a lasting connection. My Beloveds remain unmoved by my opinion.
This Saturday my Beloved Mistress stayed to make friends, without sniffing butts, and my Beloved Master took us to a lake for a much needed break for privacy, scents and peeing in the wilderness, of which we are both fond. The Visitor came. Event almost ruined, except in my almost complete avoidance of her.
Upon returning to the farm (my Beloved Mistress was still at the friend making event) my Beloved Master commenced to shorten the grass with yet another four wheeled vehicle; an undertaking I also find incomprehensible. The Visitor seized the opportunity to visit the barnyard to steal hay for undoubtedly nefarious purposes, and had the audacity to suggest that my rolling in sheep droppings was disgusting.
Gentle reader, I sense your outrage at this outpouring of indignities, and believe me when I tell you that several cups of Campbell’s best consomme have done little to quell my upset, but I must press on. The Visitor then proceeded to lock me in the barnyard without food, water or any form of succor for several hours. I grow faint at the retelling, and must rest.
The Visitor goes to her home tomorrow; good riddance. But she’ll be back. She always comes back.
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