Well, my mom finally did it. She made good on her promise to get me a muzzle if I didn’t stop eating unmentionable stuff in the dog park.
So here I’m back at the Belltown Dog Park, on top of my favorite wall, newly muzzled and totally pissed.
“She’s not miserable,” my mom said. “Her tail is up. She looks like a scuba diver.”
“She’s adjusting better than most dogs,” everyone agrees.
Busted. I am trying hard to look like a miserable, deprived, helpless dog. Not working.
Sometimes I try to pull the muzzle off. Sometimes I forget I have it on. I have to find a new way to play since up to now, it’s all about chewing and grabbing things with my mouth.
“Maybe in six months she’ll be fine on her own,” my mom said to my Aunt Sara, in an uncharacteristically optimistic prediction.
“We can always try.” Aunt Sara was neutral. She gives me treats even while I’m wearing my muzzle. And my mom gives me a treat before she puts the muzzle on, every single time. She admits to feeling a little ambivalent…but she’s not a bit undecided about those vet bills for my sensitive tummy.