Backyard Alone, By Doogie

I was asked to do a guest post here. The family dog, that's me. I said okay, so long as they included a head and shoulders portrait shot, the type of earthy black-and-white pic that classy magazines like Playboy use to showcase their authors. So that's me here, Doogie. Just imagine me wearing an ascot and smoking a pipe.

The tale I tell is anything but fiction, however. It is fact. All told in frighteningly horrid detail. Before I start, remember, I'm a small pooch. A house dog--that's H-O-U-S-E. Anytime I go outside, I'm at the bottom of the food chain. That Jack London book Call of the Wild is nightmare fiction to me. Just give me my spot on the bed, some treats and an occasional hug.

A couple weeks ago, my family decided to try a new out-of-town restaurant. They included the in-laws on this caravan, so I was taken to my cousin's house. My cousin is Peanut, a pekapoo, half Pekinese and half poodle. Short guy but built like a tank. Very exuberant. Think Chris Farley to my David Spade.

Anyway, the idea was for the two of us to keep eachother company as we both suffer separation anxiety when our masters are away. No problem. I love Peanut's backyard, a jungle of interesting sights and smells among all the trees and bushes.

So I'm out in the fenced-in backyard. Peanut's inside. After awhile, I'm bored. Ready to come inside, I scratch at the back door. No response. I scratch again, harder. Again, no response. After a few minutes of scratching I realize, I'm in the yard alone.

They forgot about me and left? Yikes! I'm 13-years-old. It's like leaving your 100-year-old grandpa at the park with just a bowl of tepid water for refreshment. A half hour passed. Then an hour. Then two! Peanut was probably inside chilling out with a chew toy and a bowl of Pedigree Dog Food.

I climbed to the top of the picnic table and stood on top. Standing on top of a table where my family usually prepares or serves food has always been a sure way to bring down the wrath of man upon me. Not this time. Nobody came to scold or swat me down.

Meanwhile, I'm out here in the wilds. After three hours had passed, I began to prepare for the worst. There's wildlife in those trees. Creatures of the night. I smell 'em. Even the cat next door is looking at me, licking his chops. At dusk, over the fence he comes I'll bet.

Daylight is waning. I hear a rustle now and then in the trees above. And it's not the wind. Could it be a hungry raccoon? Or maybe even a bear--oh, there are bears in Washtenaw County. I'm still atop the picnic table. This is where I would make my stand come nightfall.

Then I heard a car door slam. And voices. A minute later my brother Scott came around back, with a look of surprise upon seeing me. He gathered me up and took me back around front, where he showed me to Big Dave, wife Wendy and my other brother Greg, all just as surprised as Scott to see me.

"He's shivering," I heard Wendy say.

She's just lucky I can't report her to PETA.