They call me Chuckie – at least that’s what I respond to. That name’s served me well since the day I arrived here about a year ago. They had me wrapped in a blanket, and a good thing it was, for it was cold outside. My hair was very short, as you can imagine – precious little protection from the cold. Anyway, they smothered me with affection, brought me toys and all the food I could eat. They seemed to be fond of picking me up and carrying me around. They loved to set me down on my back. I would kick and wiggle as they tickled me and told me how cute I was. When I say ‘they’ you know who I mean – mommy and daddy. Back then they only called themselves that around me. Daddy has his own daddy, ‘Pops,’ a much older man who lives with us. He stays home a lot and keeps me company when mommy and daddy are out. He thinks of me as his own little baby.
            Those older, wiser and more sophisticated than I am would probably tell me I have an ‘easy gig.’ Whatever I’ve got, it was only easy for the first few months. Then things started going downhill. In the year I’ve been here she became obscenely fat and she didn’t seem to be eating any more than she did before. She started getting up in the middle of the night and daddy seemed to spend a lot of time attending to her. Come to think of it, he got weird around the same time she did. They both started paying less attention to me, so I wondered if I’d done something wrong.
            I stopped wondering the day of the ‘new arrival.’ Mommy came home, suddenly skinny, and she and daddy were all smiles. That’s when I found out I had competition – a new member of the family. The damn thing came home wrapped in a blanket, just like I did. But there the similarity ends. I’m made of sterner stuff, let me tell you. I was walking before he was, and walking better. He only started to walk a few weeks ago, and he’s hardly improved. I can walk smoothly, securely – in a straight line. His movements are jerky and he totters and staggers. Has he been drinking? I saw daddy walk like that just once. Mommy screamed at him louder than I’ve ever heard her scream, before or since and daddy never walked funny like that again.
            Back to this new arrival. Since we’re in the same family, I guess it’s time I started using his name – it’s Sam. The first time they put us together Sam grabbed me, started pinching and I let out a squeal. I was in some serious pain! You wouldn’t think a little devil like that could pinch so hard. That’s when I made my big mistake. I opened my mouth wide and made like I was going to bite him. You should have heard mommy and daddy yell. They picked me up and scolded me good. Since then I’ve been more careful. They want us to grow up together, so we’ll learn to get along. This I could do without, but I’m too little to protest, so I have to fall in line. All I know is, I used to feel like a big cheese. Now I play second banana to a guy who looks like a third-rate ventriloquist’s dummy.
            It’s been three weeks since the ‘bogus-biting’ incident and I still find Sam uncoordinated, a little dangerous and more than a little funny looking. It’s partly his body – no muscle tone or definition whatsoever. And his face – reminds me of Mr. Potato Head. Even his food bothers me – hasn’t got any consistency. Somebody with no teeth at all could eat that stuff. Sam’s got teeth, and still he eats mush. What kind of a guy does that? Hell, I’m a baby myself, and my teeth could tear your arm off. One more thing – I know this is hitting below the belt – he’s incontinent. We all go through this stage, but just like with the walking, I got over it a lot sooner.
            Well, I’ve got to be going now. We’re headed out to the country. Mommy and daddy have a place two hours’ drive from here. It’s smaller than this house, but there’s woods to run around in and all sorts of things to smell. Pops is coming with us, and at least he’ll pay attention to me. As usual, I’ll pretend to get along with Sam, just for the sake of domestic harmony. Mommy will probably give him a bottle in the car, but I’ll have to wait until we get there to eat. I may get table scraps, if there’s leftovers, or Pops will give me my Alpo. First, he’ll pick me up, muss my fur and tell me I’m his ‘little baby dachshund,’ – something like that. You knew all along I was a dog, didn’t you? I hope you didn’t think I was … hey, I know my place – ‘man’s best friend’ and all that. Anyway, like I said, I’m leaving now. A dog’s life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, is it?

Doug Dawson has worked as a musician, teacher, US defense contractor and freelance writer. His articles and stories have appeared in many car and literary magazines.