A dog's rant

Brogan here.

I rather like this photo of me for use on the Internet. The dark shadow over my eyes preserves my anonymity, which is critical in these days of paranoid American imperialism in which *anyone* can be accused of terrorism. Let's get this straight once and for all, shall we? I'm a *terrier,* not a terrorist. I know some of you think there's not much difference -- and I know UCM has called me "Brogan Bin Laden" before -- but the fact remains: I wouldn't be caught dead wearing a turban. I'm all about tartan kilts, the occasional bow tie and a nice dry martini.

In any case, I'm not writing today's blog to discuss fashion, nor how much more civilized things are in my native Scotland. I'm writing because UCM has turned into a congested, coughing wheeze-bag and, as a result, has not been taking proper care of me.

I heard her complain to a friend on the phone today that one of the worst things about living alone is being sick. Let me tell you something: One of the worst things about being the dog of a sick woman who lives alone is ... being neglected.

I'm not getting the walks I need, OK? She's taking me "out" a couple times a day and all, but she starts our walks really late (we didn't begin our "morning walk" until 1:30!), it's not for very long (a few blocks at the most!) and she won't walk fast enough for me to burn off the energy I've got stored up in these restless legs of mine. This has been going on for days.

I could tell you things, people. There are things about UCM you would *not* believe. You humans seem to bank on the idea that dogs will never tell what goes on when no one else is looking, that we'll always be loyal. Well, for the time being, I will honor that deal. My lips are sealed.

But if this bitch doesn't take me out on a good long walk pretty soon, that covenant just might be broken.

I'm just sayin'.

Brogan, over and out.