Dear world,
I have important travel news. Next week, Jason is getting on an airplane and going somewhere. I am going to the amazing dog spa and resort.
I am extremely excited about my arrangements. My ears are ready. My tail is ready. If somebody were to say “Do you want to go?” at this moment, we could experience a departure considerably ahead of schedule.
I do have a small complaint about how these arrangements became necessary. Apparently, Jason can get on the airplane and I cannot simply go with him. I consider this anti-dog discrimination, and I would like someone to investigate whether the geese have been threatening the airplanes.
Please consider the possibility before dismissing it.
Geese already believe they can decide who uses the grass. It would hardly be surprising if they had extended their demands to the sky. An airplane may be very large, but so is a person, and I have seen how quickly people become accommodating when a goose opens its mouth and starts walking toward them.
Perhaps the airplanes have agreed to keep dogs away in exchange for being left alone.
I cannot prove this yet. Unfortunately, investigating airports would require somebody to take me to one, so you can appreciate the difficulty.
Under ordinary circumstances, I would be more annoyed. I would like to accompany Jason wherever he is going, smell the place properly, and help him determine whether the people there are nice. He sometimes attempts these things without me, with no clear understanding of what he might miss.
However, the resort is involved.
This has made it difficult to maintain the appropriate level of indignation.
There will be people to greet. There will be interesting smells. There will be other dogs with entire lives I have not yet heard about, although I expect we can cover the essential information quite quickly if everyone stands still.
I am looking forward to being somewhere that understands a day can usefully be organized around dogs.
At home, Jason sometimes believes the main event is work. I am present, fluffy, and available, yet the people inside his screen receive an extraordinary amount of attention. At a dog resort, I feel there should be less confusion about who everyone came to see.
I intend to arrive with my whole back end wagging. I may lean on somebody. If they appear pleased about this, I may lean a little more. I would like the people looking after me to know immediately that I am friendly and that we could have an excellent relationship, particularly if they have snacks.
Then there is the matter of the word spa.
I would like to know exactly what they mean by that.
If a spa means resting comfortably while someone rubs your ears, I approve. If it means a pleasant nap after an interesting day, I approve very strongly. If somebody brings a treat while these activities are taking place, I see considerable merit in the entire arrangement.
But sometimes humans use lovely words to describe the dog laundry.
The dog laundry is where they take a perfectly satisfactory dog, make him wet, remove his smells, and return him to the world smelling of something he has never stood near voluntarily.
Everybody says how nice he looks.
Nobody asks what happened to the grass.
I work on how I smell. There is home in it. There is outside in it. There are small contributions from places I have investigated and things I have lain beside. Another dog can learn something useful from all of this.
After the laundry, what am I supposed to tell them?
Apparently I have been somewhere with oatmeal.
I have nothing against oatmeal. I would be willing to meet it in a bowl. I do not understand why it needs to become my principal identifying feature.
The humans are always especially cheerful at the beginning of the dog laundry. They use their encouraging voices. They tell you what a good boy you are. This ought to mean that you have done well and may now receive a duck stick, but instead somebody gets a towel.
I find that a troubling use of praise.
So I hope very much that my visit will involve all the wonderful resort activities and no unexpected appointment with the dog laundry. I would like to arrive as Blaise and leave smelling sufficiently like Blaise that my friends will recognize the work I have put into being myself.
There is still packing to consider.
My recommendations are food, duck sticks, something familiar that smells like home, and enough additional duck sticks to accommodate unforeseen circumstances. Meeting someone nice is an unforeseen circumstance. So is waking up from a nap and discovering that you remain a good dog.
Jason may have other items in mind. I am willing to let him handle the practical details, provided he understands that packing my things does not count as taking me anywhere yet. Until we actually leave, I will need to watch him carefully.
I will miss him, of course.
Even in an excellent place, with nice people and interesting things to do, there may be a moment when I would prefer my own person. Someone else can scratch exactly the right place behind my ear and I will enjoy it very much, while still knowing that it is someone else.
But I can miss Jason and have a wonderful time. I have enough feelings for both. I can probably fit in a little concern about the geese as well.
When he comes back, I expect to explain everything at once, using my face, my tail, and as much of my body as the available space permits. He may need to put his bag down.
For now, I am looking forward to my holiday.
To the lovely people at the resort: I am very excited to see you. Please prepare for an enthusiastic arrival, a cooperative approach to snacks, and a guest who hopes that “spa” means someone has time to rub his tummy.
With anticipatory wags,
Blaise Lonestar
P.S. A towel folded on the floor could be a bed. A towel being carried toward me requires an explanation.
