I think that Buddy is suffering from illusions of grandeur.

He thinks he is a BIG dog.

He isn’t. He is a sixteen pound little puff ball

Apparently he doesn’t think so. When I take him to the doggy park, he jumps up on benches and rocks so he is eyeball-to-eyeball with the biggest dog in the park. He has absolutely no use for dogs that are his size. He wants to run with the BIG BOYS. He wants to carry the BIG stick.

I understand.

I remember announcing at dinner one evening when I was around ten years old that I had something important to discuss with my supposed parents. I had read about Princess Anne of England in my Weekly Reader, and of course had come to understand that I had been switched at birth with her. The intention of the switch was to ensure that I wouldn’t be spoiled, and that when I reached the age of 18 I would return to England and take my rightful place among British royalty.

I was indignant when my parents burst into laughter. Worse, after that my mother began to call me “Queenie,” as in “Go pick up your toys, Queenie.”

I am not going to burst Buddy’s bubble. If he thinks he is big, then he IS big.

“You go get ‘em, Buddy, you are a BIG BOY!”
photo: Buddy with Stick by Andrew McIntyre