Hi, I’m the Dog.

I know you’re in the middle of something probably important, but do you mind if I sit on you?

I’m sitting here on the couch in front of the TV, like I do every night. I’ve just booted up the laptop to write my entry for the American Cancer Society’s Write 30 Minutes a Day in May fundraiser. That’s when The Rockstar, my 100lb, 4 year old Boxer, decides to climb up in my lap.

Literally, EVERY DOG INTERNET MEME, EVER.

At least he’s posing for a full 10 seconds for the blog photo. That never happens. Usually, the moment I pick up the phone camera, he moves. I had the perfect furbro/sisfur pic for an amazing Insta post tagging Taylor Swift framed an hour ago. The moment my thumb hit the button, Rocky moved.

Rocky’s in love with Taylor Swift. He follows her on Instagram. I don’t know why. He knows she’s a cat person.

I could, but I never, ever move Rocky when he climbs up into my lap like this. That may be why my back aches so often. Those bony boxer elbows to the hip are a killer. So’s the 100 pounds on my lap. Not to mention the nose that nudges my wrists out of the way of whatever I’m doing. When I’m working at my desk, that nose jostling my elbow is the stuff of epic typos. Thank God for the delete key.

When I decided to adopt a dog, I pictured a cute puppy - even a large puppy - snuggled up at my feet on the bed at night, or next to me on the couch. I imagined a happy little furball curled up on the floor of my home office while I worked.

I did not picture a 5 foot standing on hind legs perpetual toddler stealing my covers and randomly draping himself over me at inopportune times. Actually, all the time. Rocky’s tried to climb into my lap while I’m sitting at the kitchen table.

Ok, the table thing is just to try and steal my dinner, but you know. “Hi I’m the Dog.”

At least he’s not his sisfur, Ella, who outright snags my french fries while I’m bringing them to my mouth.

Ella does not say “Hi. I’m The Dog.” Ella barks it from the rooftop. Boxers are quiet, sub-vocal creatures. Had I known Dane Supermutts are NOT. Ella was adopted to be a big sister to Rocky, even though she’s nearly a year younger. I looked at her photo on Last Hope K9’s website and thought, for some reason, she was more mature than my boundlessly energetic boxer.

Oooh no! Ella has a middle name - as in -

“Hrrrm?”

“Yes, Ella. I’m writing about you.”

“Well, I’m just going to go right over to this sliding glass door and bark whine until you let me outside!”

Definitely NOT “Hi, I’m the Dog.” More like, “Hooman! I am DOG! You will obey my demands!”

Note I say “demands” and not “commands.” Commands are not issued in whiny, persistent barking, complete with facial and body expressions. Another word for what Ella Marie Belle does - besides get into serious mischief, hence the reason she needed a middle name - I use it like all moms do, as an extra, “you’re really in trouble child” admonishment - is lecture.

Again, soooo NOT what I pictured dog ownership would be like.

I had a pretty cool life before Rocky and Ella adopted me (and TheOmen, but really, they’re my dogs. Unless they’re doing something they shouldn’t. Then they’re all D’s dogs). I have a great life because they did. Definitely, a livelier one.

I wasn’t actually a dog person until I adopted Rocky. I liked cats. Cats are quiet. Cats don’t need to be let out at 2:00 a.m. to go pee. Cats don’t steal whole, waiting-to-go-into-the-oven pizzas off the kitchen island and devour them when you’re back is turned (Ella, actually). Cat’s don’t take your shoe the moment you walk in the door after going grocery shopping and parade around the living room with it, tail wagging in a victory dance.

Rock hops off my lap, grabs a shoe, and starts parading around with it.

Ah! I can write!

Nope, here comes Ella. She outright noses my entire arm away from the laptop’s keyboard. “Hi. I’m the Dog. Pay attention to me please.”

At least she’s only 85 pounds.