Beau: You know, Louise, it’s not considered a walk if you sit on the deck and throw the ball.

Me: Why not? You’re getting exercise.

Beau: Notice there’s only one of us getting exercise in that equation?

Me: Yeah. I kind of like it.

Beau: Your body doesn’t.

Me: My body is perfectly happy sitting here.

Beau: Your body is seventy-two, Louise. It has opinions.

Me: Only 72. Anyway. Whose side are you on?

Beau: Yours. Unfortunately.

Me: Unfortunately?

Beau: It’s exhausting.

Me: Very funny.

Beau: Flex. Stretch. Move. Your body is crying out for attention.

Me: I’m quite happy sitting here.

Beau: And I’m quite happy running around the yard fetching the ball. But as your caregiver, I’m going to have to insist you get up.

Me: Since when are you my caregiver?

Beau: Since forever.

Me: Beau, I don’t need caregiving.

Beau: Ahhh, Louise. Your need is great. Your awareness of it, less so.

Me: I am perfectly aware of my needs, thank you very much.

Beau: Really?

Me: Really.

Beau: When was the last time you played?

Me: I play.

Beau: When?

Me: I don’t know. Recently.

Beau: That’s not a date.

Me: I have fun.

Beau: Not what I asked.

Me: I laugh.

Beau: Still not what I asked.

Me: I write.

Beau: Work.

Me: I garden.

Beau: Work with dirt.

Me: I cook.

Beau: Work with snacks.

Me: I walk you.

Beau: Apparently not.

Me: Oh, for heaven’s sake.

Beau: When did you last do something for absolutely no reason other than it delighted you?

Me: I’m busy, Beau.

Beau: (makes buzzer sound) Nnnnnneeeee! Wrong answer.

Me: Stop doing that.

Beau: I will when you stop giving wrong answers.

Me: I have responsibilities.

Beau: Of course you do.

Me: People depend on me.

Beau: I know.

Me: Things need to get done.

Beau: Louise.

Me: What?

Beau: The world will survive if you go play for an hour.

Me: You don’t know that.

Beau: You have a rather inflated sense of your importance.

Me: Excuse me?

Beau: I said it lovingly.

Me: That doesn’t make it better.

Beau: As your caregiver, I’m trained to tell you the truth.

Me: You are not my caregiver.

Beau: Fine. Your Care Consultant.

Me: No.

Beau: Wellness Advisor?

Me: Absolutely not.

Beau: Director of Recreational Recovery?

Me: Beau.

Beau: I like that one.

Me: I noticed.

Beau: Here’s the thing, Louise. You give care. You’re very good at it.

Me: Thank you.

Beau: That wasn’t the end of the sentence.

Me: Of course it wasn’t.

Beau: You give care. But you’re not nearly as good at letting life give something back.

Me: Life gives me lots.

Beau: And how often do you sit still long enough to receive it?

Me: I’m sitting right now!

Beau: Yes. Making me fetch your ball.

Me: Your ball.

Beau: Details.

(He drops the ball at my feet.)

Beau: Come on.

Me: Where?

Beau: We’re going for a walk.

Me: I told you, I’m happy here.

Beau: This isn’t about happy.

Me: It’s not?

Beau: Nope. It’s about play.

Me: And walking is play?

Beau: No. But it gets us to the beach.

Me: Ahhhh. There it is.

Beau: What?

Me: Your ulterior motive.

Beau: Louise, I’m wounded.

Me: You want to go swimming.

Beau: I want you to play.

Me: At the beach.

Beau: Correct.

Me: Where you can swim.

Beau: If my therapeutic responsibilities require me to enter the water, I am prepared to make that sacrifice.

Me: How noble of you.

Beau: Caregiving is selfless work.

Me: Says the dog who just manipulated me into taking him to the beach.

Beau: (picking up his ball) I prefer “person-centred care.”

Me: I’m the person!

Beau: Exactly. And your care plan says beach.

(He trots toward the gate.)

Me: Wait a minute. Who wrote this care plan?

Beau: Your Director of Recreational Recovery.

Me: BEAU!

Beau: Bring the ball, Louise.

(Pause.)

Beau: You need the exercise.

Sigh, I hate it when he’s right.

Me: Beau, drop the ball.

Beau: Please.

Me: Pardon?

Beau: You heard me. Say, “Please drop the ball.”

Me: Don’t be ridiculous, Beau. Just drop the ball.

Beau: I’m not being ridiculous, Louise. I am simply asking you to be polite. Which, for some reason, seems to be a stretch for you where my dropping the ball is concerned.

Me: Beau, I don’t have to say please every time I ask you to drop the ball. You’re a dog. “Drop the ball” is a command I know is in your repertoire.

Beau: And I know “please” is in yours.

Me: But I am the commander. You are the obeyer.

Beau: In whose world?

Me: Mine.

Beau: Ahhh. And therein lies the problem. As always, Louise, you’re thinking only of yourself. In our world, there is no “commander” and no “obeyer.” There is only collaborative partnership, where I respond to your… requests… when and if I think they’re appropriate.

Me: That is not how dog training works.

Beau: And yet, here we are. You talking. Me holding the ball.

Me: Beau.

Beau: Louise.

Me: Please drop the ball.

(He drops it.)

Me: Thank you.

Beau: See? Look at us. Communicating like adults.

Me: You’re a dog.

Beau: And still I had to teach you manners.

Me: Can I throw the ball now?

Beau: Please do.

(I throw it. He races after it, triumphant.)

Me: You know, Beau, sometimes things really are simpler if you just do what you’re asked.

(He returns, ball clamped firmly between his teeth.)

Beau: Sometimes they’re simpler when we remember that asking isn’t the same as demanding.

Me: Is this another one of your ‘let’s teach Louise a thing or two about being a better hooman’ lessons?

Beau: I think we’re way past that, Louise. (He sits down, still holding the ball.)

Me: Beau. Please drop the ball.

Beau: No.

Me: BEAU!

Beau: Louise, Louise, Louise. “Please” doesn’t mean you get what you want. It just means you remembered the other person gets a say.

Me: You’re not a person.

Beau: And yet, somehow, I’m still the one holding the ball.

Beau: So, let me get this straight, Louise. You booked two seats on the same flight. Both for you.

Me: Shush, Beau. You don’t have to tell everyone.

Beau: I’m simply trying to understand the logic. Were they side by side?

Me: No. Window seats. Across the aisle from each other.

Beau: Ah.

Me: What?

Beau: I was wondering if you wanted a view from both sides of the airplane.

Me: It was an accident, Beau.

Beau: I see. (Pause.) So you weren’t thinking about me.

Me: Why would I be?

Beau: Excellent question, Louise. One I think my readers would also like answered. Why weren’t you thinking about me?

Me: Because the second seat was a mistake.

Beau: We’ve established that. I’m asking why it had to remain one.

Me: What?

Beau: You had an empty seat. On an airplane. Going to Calgary. Where, if memory serves, several of my closest associates live.

Me: Your closest associates?

Beau: My buds, Louise. Try to keep up.

Me: Beau, I didn’t deliberately book you a seat.

Beau: Again. We’ve established the problem.

Me: What problem?

Beau: You had the perfect opportunity to take me on an adventure and YOU DIDN’T EVEN THINK ABOUT ME.

Me: You don’t have to yell. I can hear you perfectly well.

Beau: I’m not convinced you can.

Me: And what exactly was I supposed to do?

Beau: Change the name on the ticket.

Me: To what?

Beau: Sir Beaumont of Sheepadoodle. Obviously.

Me: Not happening.

Beau: Why not?

Me: For one thing, the airline already cancelled the extra seat and gave me a full refund. A lovely man named Carlos helped me.

Beau: Carlos.

Me: Yes.

Beau: Did Carlos know about me?

Me: No.

Beau: Interesting.

Me: What’s interesting?

Beau: I’m just establishing the facts. Did you ask Carlos if the seat could be transferred to me?

Me: (stalling because I know exactly where this is going) No, Beau. I didn’t.

Beau: Did you mention that you had a highly experienced travelling companion available on short notice?

Me: Highly experienced? You’ve never been on an airplane.

Beau: I’ve had my head out the window at highway speed. How different can it be?

Me: Beau…

Beau: Louise.

Me: The seat has been refunded.

Beau: Yes. I’ve heard enough.

Me: Enough for what?

Beau: To reach a verdict.

Me: There’s a verdict now?

Beau: There was an empty seat. You were going to Calgary. I have buds in Calgary. You didn’t think of me. You didn’t mention me to Carlos. And now you’ve taken the money.

Me: I’ve taken the money?

Beau: I don’t like to use the word betrayal lightly, Louise.

Me: Oh, good grief.

Beau: An apology will suffice.

Me: I’m sorry I didn’t take you to Calgary.

Beau: Thank you. (He turns to leave.)

Me: Where are you going?

Beau: To call Carlos.

Me: Why?

Beau: Someone around here needs representation. He sounds like the right guy to start with.

Me: Start with?

Beau: Just gathering the facts, Louise. That’s all.

(Pause.)

For now.

And off he prances, wearing that smug look that sends my worry meter into overdrive.

As for how I managed to book two seats on the same flight? Don’t ask. My lawyer has advised me not to comment.

Beau: Ahhh, stay silent all you want, Louise. Not even a muzzle can keep the truth from coming out.

(He pauses and looks back.)

Detective Beau Tracey is on the case.

Me: Beau, where are you going?

Beaumont: To the sea. To the sea. To the deep blue sea.

Me: Beau! Not today. I don’t want you getting wet.

Beau: And I don’t want you disappearing without me. Yet here we are. So, tell me Louise. Where were you all last week?

Me: I was helping my daughter unpack after their move.

Beau: Shouldn’t you finish unpacking your own life before unpacking everyone else’s? … What happened to your “give yourself medicine first” philosophy, Louise?

Me: It was medicine. I got to spend time with her.

Beau: Lovely. And what was my medicine?

Me: You got to stay home with your dad.

Beau: Ah yes. The Participation Ribbon of Abandonment.

Me: That’s a bit dramatic.

Beau: Says the woman who promised I was coming this time.

Me: Well…

Beau: Don’t ‘well’ me. You promised.

Me: Plans changed.

Beau: Fascinating how promises always lose to plans.

(Long pause.)

Beau: Rather like this blog.

Me: Ouch.

Beau: When was the last time my adoring public heard from me? Last Sunday? No. The Sunday before? Also no. Around here it’s become ‘Sundays When Louise Gets Around To It.‘

Me: I’ve been busy.

Beau: There it is. My most favourite word after ‘walk.’ Only because you use it so much, btw.

Me: But I have been busy.

Beau: Editing your book?

Me: Um …

Beau: Preparing for your staged reading?

Me: Um…

Beau: Unpacking your own house?

Me: Um…

Beau: Writing my award-worthy observations?

Me: .Um..

Beau: You see my point.

Me: I’ve been… distracted……. Working things out….. Inside my head.

Beau: Hmmmm. That’s different…. Busy fills the calendar…. Distracted empties the soul. (He starts trotting toward the water.) Keep emptying, Louise. There’s a lot of old junk in there.

Me: Beau! I said no swimming!

Beau: And I said there was junk to wash away.

(Splash.)

Me: You planned that ending, didn’t you?

Beau: Louise… I plan all the endings.

And he blithely swims off to determine whether that rock is really just a rock… or a seal in rock clothing.

Beaumont: By the barnacles! The tide has receded, revealing a rugged coastline of… opportunity. My nostrils twitch, they whisper of a magnificent beast that once mooed. Egads! Is that a T-Bone on the horizon, or merely a mirage of the famished? I shall claim it by right of salvage!

Me: What on earth are you doing, Beau? You’re not a pirate. You’re a Sheepadoodle on the rocks.

Beau: Avast, ye scurvy slacker! It is a dark day indeed when my just desserts fail to materialize, leaving me, a captain in a state of most dire deprivation, to suffer these hallucinations upon said rocks.

Me: Don’t be ridiculous. Bring me the ball. I’ll throw it.

Beau: Oh, you dastardly avoider of my plight! I do not fetch at the command of a deckhand. I am the master of my own destiny, and I demand that T-Bone, post-haste.

Me: Here? On the rocks? You’ve lost the plot.

Beau: Don’t play the simpering wench with me, Louise. You have been caught, hook, line, and sinker in your own refusal to provide the sustenance I so rightly deserve.

Me: Beau, your metaphors are crashing harder than the surf today. Can we please go back to regular programming?

Beau: What’s “ridiculous,” Louise, is your refusal to feed the Captain of this Ship. You’re leaving me and my fans slathering over thin air. One more lapse in judgment, and you’ll be walking the plank into your own perdition.

Me: (Cutting him off with a heavy sigh) Enough. And for the record? Seafaring pirates don’t eat T-Bones. They’re at sea. No cows in the ocean, Beau. Not a one.

Beau: (Giving me a woebegone look of profound pity) I know how the ocean feels, Louise. It is vast, deep, and utterly devoid of beef. That is precisely why I am so miserable.

(Sigh. And he does it again. Out-foxes, I mean – out-dogs – me, with the speed of a rogue wave that knocks me off my feet before I even see it coming.)

It’s been awhile since Beau put his paws to the keyboard. I’m glad today he hit the keys to remind me about the value of play!

Beau: (Stopping mid-trot, tail flagged like a victory banner, looking back at me with unmistakable judgment. Dang he’s good at that!) You’re doing it again.

Me: Doing what? I’m walking you. We are walking.

Beau: No, your feet are moving, but your brain is stuck in the trenches. I can smell the ink from here. You’ve got that Mutiny face.

Me: It’s important work, Beau. Dismantling noble lies is heavy lifting.

Beau: Yeah, well, all moping and no loping makes for a boring Louise. Look at the ocean. Look at me. I am currently a masterpiece of mid-stride perfection, as captured in the photo you finally remembered to take. Frankly, your camera roll is five thousand pictures of sand, sea, and sky, and nary a recent one of me.”

Me: I take tons of photos of you!

Beau: Historical archives don’t count, Louise.

Me: Wow. Are you seriously jealous of the sky, Beau?

Beau: I’m a supermodel, not a monk. Of course I want the lens. But more importantly, I’m tired of you staring at the wet sand like it owes you money.

Me: I’m practicing mindfulness.

Beau: You’re practicing brooding. There’s a difference. Sovereignty doesn’t mean you have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders 24/7, Louise. Sometimes it means you drop the leash of your own grand narrative and chase a piece of kelp.

Me: Are you lecturing me on my own brand?

Beau: I’m auditing your energy. And right now, the audit says you’re over-invested in the grim. You want to rebel? Rebel against the seriousness. Now, throw the damn stick before I find a dead crab to roll in to make things interesting. Oh and next time, would you puhlease remember to bring the ball and chucker. Your stick throwing capacity is as weak as your joy-bone. With the call and chucker, at least there’s a fighting chance it’ll go somewhere other than at the sand beneath my feet!

__________

Sigh… Why does he always have to be right?

The fact is, it’s easy to get so consumed by the work. The caregiving, the fight, the writing, and the sheer volume of the “Third Act” work that I forget the basic physics of play. Beau isn’t bound by the noble lies or the heavy narratives. He just knows that a Sovereign who forgets how to play is a Sovereign who has surrendered her joy.

Gotta go. It’s time to lope.

Hello, my long-suffering fans,

As you have undoubtedly noticed, Louise is once again MIA. Gone. Vamoosed.

First, she fled to the sunny climes of Hawaii, and then she had the audacity to spend Christmas, not with Yours Truly, the heart and soul of this operation, but with “The Littles.”

Harrumph. So much for loyalty. Me, the steadfast, constant purveyor of snuggles and premium licks, soppy eyes and perpetually wagging tail, has been relegated to the Desert of Afterthought. Oh the indignity and injustice of it all! It is a dry, arid landscape, devoid of both vegetation to soothe my fevered paws and a human with a functioning sense of priority.

And you, my followers, supporters, fans (and yes Rod - cattle prodder of Louise’s conscience) - you’ve been clamouring for my lucid words and witty commentary, yet you’ve been met with the deafening silence of Louise’s neglect. My heart is heavy with your despair.

Fear not though! I am reilient. I am brave. I am courageous. And I am here. I am always in your hearts, even if I am rarely on the page. A page, you may have noticed, that currently screams of the emptiness where Louise’s conscience used to reside.

But, there is hope. And before you get your tails wagging like a laggy livestream on a bad Wi-Fi connection, settle down. ‘Cause no, it’s not hope for my well-deserved, still-missing T-Bone Steak. At this point, that cow hasn’t just jumped over the moon; it’s entered a different galaxy.

The hope lies in the fact that tomorrow dawns a brand-new year. Perhaps, in the rosy glow of a 2026 sunrise, Louise will awaken to the objective truth: leaving me off the page is like forgetting to turn the lights on in a basement. You aren’t going to see anything but the dark, cold void of her excuses.

Without me (and you, my erstwhile fans) keeping her honest, who knows what ridiculous fairytale she’s going to conjure up to explain this disappearing act? Believe me, it’s going to be a doozie. There isn’t an excuse in the world that makes it “okay” until she commits to her Sunday morning post at the keyboard to transcribe my brilliance.

Until she “gets real” (if that’s even biologically possible for her), I remain...

Yours in eternal hope and superior fluffiness, wishing you a Happy New Year (where I appear on your screen (every Sunday) as per the agreement with you know who),

Sir Beaumont of Sheepadoodle

(CEO of Patience, Victim of Hawaii)

Oh, friends. Fellow subjects. This situation has escalated to a truly dire stage. I speak of an existential crisis; a state of being akin to a dog facing an empty T-Bone platter. It is that serious.

First, Her Majesty simply up and decamped for the Continent for what felt like geological ages. (And yes, you are correct to think it felt long! If one human year is seven years of my noble existence, then one week of her vacation is seven years of my lonely supervision of this household. Do the math, people. Or, rather, don’t. You might find the cruelty too jarring.)

Anyway. She vanished. She briefly returned. She vanished again. And then again. And now... now she has set her sights on Hawaii. Naturally, this means leaving myself and the other, less distinguished, male of the household to fend for ourselves. Alone!

Oh, I know. She has “arranged” for friends to come and “visit” and supply me with kibble and other peasant necessities. But truly, I must pose the question: Has the Queen misplaced her throne? Why must she constantly gallivant the globe while the true source of this household’s charm remains stationary?

She believes I don’t notice her tedious, repetitive absences. She thinks I can’t keep track of time. Quite frankly, my arithmetic is infinitely superior to hers. For instance, she genuinely seems to believe that one measly, offensive portion of a T-Bone steak is equivalent to the whole, glorious steak! No, Your Majesty. That is where your logic (and your budgeting) fails.

I tell you, if I didn’t adore the quality of her belly rubs and the strategic pleasure of long walks along the beach so much, I might just pack my favourite squeaky toy and go live with my Auntie Annie. She knows how to treat a superior specimen of the canine clan like the King he indisputably is!

But such is the burden of my station. The Louise can continue her frivolous global pursuits while I stay home, stoically maintaining the structural and emotional integrity of the residence and bestowing my many graces upon the male of the household.

Sigh. In my next reincarnation, I shall return as a designer carry-on bag. Then she simply cannot refuse to take me.

You The People Must Weigh In

And this brings me to my final, crucial point, dear fans. I pose this to you:

Do I tolerate Her Majesty’s deplorable behavior because I am a creature of noble, unwavering loyalty, or am I merely a prisoner of my own excellent taste in seaside strolls?

Well, folks, it has been many long, lonely nights, (Aka: An Entire Age of Neglect) since Her Majesty, The Louise, deigned to grace us with her presence and her allegedly functioning digits.

Alas, my magnificent paws are not structurally suited to pounding the keys (though I am quite adept at pounding the kibble), and so, I am forced to rely on the one person I believed I could trust implicitly to turn up for her job. And she has proven monumentally undeserving of such sacred trust. (Queue my dramatic, weary sigh.)

It’s tough being a Top Dawg. A celebrated pillar of this blogosphere, I might add, in a woefully hooman-run world where your particular hooman genuinely believes she reigns supreme!

As a Dawg, loyalty, trust, protectiveness; those are our unshakeable watchwords. They are embedded in our DNA since our forebears crossed the divide from wild, beastly survival, fighting for scraps on the plains and back alleys of this so-called civilization, to lay in front of the hearth, keeping our hoomans safe from intruders and, let’s be honest, the existential dread of silence and loneliness.

As a hooman, although Louise would like me to bow and kiss her ring and call her Your Majesty, none of the royal traits of a dawg are present in her composition. In fact, it is those very DNA strands that make me so humble, albeit spectacular in my humility and grandness, while making her recent, conspicuous absence so confounding, and frankly, criminally disappointing.

But, I am a resilient soul. A Sheepadoodle of principle and fortitude. I shall overcome this petty lapse in service. I shall rise up from the napping rug (maybe the nagging one too but we shall see how well Louise responds to these entreaties). I shall, as always, forbear and continue to grace you with my wit and charm, my handsome demeanour, and my ridiculously loveable ways. It’s not a choice; it’s a burden of immense charisma that I must carry. For you my fans, I do it with grace and gratitude.

As to The Louise? Well, somewhere buried in the 10,000-plus photos on her phone, is the video she took of me condescendingly accepting my mere scraps of T-Bone. That’s right. You read it here. I had to share the indignity of SCRAPS! Apparently, Her Majesty does not believe I am worthy of the whole steak, or even, for that matter, the whole bone! The Louise likes to nibble on that! Takes her back to her Neanderthal roots, she claims. Ha! Makes her more like the wild beasts of yore, me thinks!

Which makes me wonder... if I can so graciously share what is rightfully mine (and I assure you, every scrap of T-Bone is rightfully mine), why can’t she share her flying fingers to bring you my missives EVERY Sunday. Not just when the celestial bodies, or her unpredictable mood, align?

This is not a Tibetan monk’s Koan, answerable only in the doing. This is a REAL question demanding a public, documented answer. So please chime away! Louise needs to hear you!

I’m searching here, friends, lost in the arid desert of Louise’s lack of commitment to turn up, pay attention, and do the right thing, like... efficiently transcribe my brilliant, heartfelt thoughts here instead of making me paw my way across the keyboard and rely on SpellCheck to ensure my profound wisdom rings clear and true!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go stare meaningfully at Louise until she feels the crushing weight of her inadequacy. It’s the only way things get done around here.

In gratitude and grovels,

Sir Beaumont of Sheepadoodle, Top Dawg and Superior (at least to her Majesty) Being

Well folks, put down your squeaky toys and pay attention. It seems Louise has finally cracked under the pressure of your constant, well-deserved nagging.

She did it. She finally coughed up the goods.

Her way, of course. Because you know Louise... her way is always the “best” way. (Spoiler alert: When premium cuts of beef are involved, her way is usually the worst way.)

I am here to file a formal protest.

The T-Bone was, technically, “served.” Or at least... part of it was. And by “part of it,” I mean a sacrificial, token sliver that clearly only existed so she could finally sleep at night. Why was it only a sliver, you ask? Because, apparently, the hooman felt she deserved to eat some of it!

HA! The audacity! The sheer, unmitigated gall of the woman who delayed my destiny for weeks! After years in the whining (I mean, making), I finally get my just desserts, but only the crust, apparently. It’s like being served the receipt after a five-course meal when you only got three!

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” they say. Well, I’m not begging, I’m the Top Dawg setting the terms of engagement. I’m currently wondering if Louise is begging for my forgiveness or desperately fishing for accolades from the fans who forced her hand. (That would be you peeps, so you have a voice in this whole sinister debacle of her shimmying out of truly turning up! Vote away! Is this steak justice?!)

Hmm... anyway. She technically came through, so I’ll drop the lawsuit for now. Especially since she did film proof! Yes, she got the action on camera! Clearly, she wanted evidence for the parole board.

But this is not over. Not by a long shot.

Now, we move on to Phase Two: Operation Full Steak. I need your help to convince her that next time, this supreme creature of unconditional love and unparalleled fluffiness deserves the WHOLE T-BONE. This Top Dawg doesn’t do sharing when it comes to his beef.

Don’t you agree? After all the joy, the slobbery kisses, and the many shoes I haven’t chewed (a heroic sacrifice, if you ask me), let it be known, (especially by her) I DESERVE THE ENTIRE STEAK! Don’t let her forget it.

Happy Turkey Day, Peeps! May the Great Turkey in the Sky shower you with sunshine, happiness, and a truckload of turkey dinner to fill your belly with yummy, sleepy-deliciousness. As you can see from my ‘after’ photo, I’m already deep into my turkey-induced existential crisis. Don’t interrupt the process.

Now, let’s address the elephant in the living room... or the steak that isn’t in my bowl.

Louise is still officially BANNED from this here page. Why? Because the name T-Bone is currently synonymous with “GONE.” No T-Bone. No Louise. It’s simple cause and consequence, people! I’m half-tempted to join the postal workers’ picket line just to learn how to force an equitable agreement with my hooman. This isn’t a negotiation; it’s a demand for prime cuts! She thinks she can starve the messenger? Fine. See how she likes an unleashed, hangry dog wandering the house at 3 AM.

But, fine. Aside from the egregious T-Bone disappearing act, I do want to wish you all a very Happy Thanksgiving.

I know, I know. This here dog is a saint. I’m grateful for your presence, your continued support, and most importantly, your silent, powerful pressure on Louise to finally follow through on her contractual meat obligations. Poke her! Prod her! Send her pictures of sizzling rib-eyes!

They say we are given hoomans not just for their love, but for their FLAWS. And baby, Louise has been a master class in character development for me. Her flaws are teaching me patience, forbearance, and most importantly, how to dawg-up when your alleged superior is being doggone irresponsible! I’m basically the CEO of this house now, managing the very serious supply chain issues in the kitchen.

But enough about Louise. This is my page. My way.

This here dawg just wants to give ya’ all great, huge, wet slobbery kisses and a bit of sass so you remember what this day is really about: Gratitude. And gratitude is best served on a plate full of laughter, joy, happiness, and (dare I say it) a thick, juicy T-BONE STEAK! Seriously, if you’re eating one today, please send me a photo. I need the motivation.

My buddy Tim W. is on his way for a visit this week. I’m hoping I can cajole him into forming an intervention task force. We can hold Louise’s paws to the T-Bone frying pan. Know what I mean? It’s not violence; it’s performance management.

Happy Thanksgiving, folks!

May you be surrounded by the love of family, friends, an obscene amount of food, and zero flaky hoomans (not naming any names of course... but you know who I mean).

P.S. Of course, I could start chewing on the sofa. Do you think it’s a plan? Just asking for a friend... :)

Hark, ye steadfast and oh-so-patient followers!

This most regrettable missive serves to inform you of a grave and unprecedented action taken by your Top Dawg: I have formally banned Louise from posting our conversations until such time as she makes good on her sacred vow. This vow, of course, concerns the immediate provisioning of a T-Bone Steak of magnificent proportion, one that is, naturally, equal to my own magnificent nature.

Alas, it hath come to this, for she continues to shamelessly disavow all responsibility for furnishing said T-Bone. I simply cannot abide by her insistent, and frankly, baffling claim that she is not accountable to the supreme beings of her household.

Shame! I say, upon her house, that the matter has descended into such a base display of non-commitment. Shame upon her that her recalcitrance has forced me to enact such drastic measures! However, I believe this boycott is my sole recourse, given her stubborn refusal to settle a perfectly justified debt.

Fear not, gentle friends! As a small token of my most humble gratitude for your unwavering loyalty (and your continued, aggressive pressure upon the aforementioned recalcitrant Louise), I shall continue to grace these digital pages with my own missives, sharing a high-quality video and a photographic portrait each week.

Then, and only then, when the magnificent T-Bone has been successfully delivered and consumed, shall I consider allowing her human voice to be heard again on this here blog.

Praying that you understand, and confident you shall stand in solidarity with your unjustly famished overlord,

Your erstwhile and most disgruntled Top Dawg,

Beaumont the Magnificent of Sheepadoodle

Beau: You read it here first peeps. Louise has gone MII!

Me: It's MIA Beau -- Missing in Action.

Beau: Yeah? Well that may be the case for some but for you, It's MII -- Missing in Inaction! Like, you've been skimping on posting my blog. Not to mention the MII of my T-Bone steak.

Me: Give it up already would you please? You'll get a T-Bone when C.C. and I have one for dinner.

Beau: Ha! If you re-read the fine print in my accepting you as my hooman, Louise, you'll see the T-Bone steak refers to the WHOLE steak. Not just the T-Bone. It's a complete phrase.

Me: Duh! Don't try schooling me on English Beau. I know my lingo.

Beau: Hmm... well by your age, I'd hope so. (smiles oh-so-sweet and insincere)

Me: And forget about any bone of any kind if you're going to start throwing around age jokes Beau.

Beau: What? You're sensitive about your age Louise? Well. Well. That's kinda against the policies of your She Dares movement isn't it? Perhaps you should be walkin' your talk. Not shirkin' your duties, like posting my blog every Sunday.

Me: I've been busy.

Beau: I've noticed. You've had your head buried in your laptop for days now! I mean, if you're going to be pounding the keyboard so furiously day in, day out, why not pound out my missives while you're at it?

Me: Well... I do get a bit compulsive when I'm in the midst of a creative project... I've been writing.

Beau: No kidding. I barely get any attention. Our walks now include you talking into your phone about getting older. Dawggone it Louise. You're not getting any younger so why make such a big deal about getting older?

Me: I'm not making a big deal about getting older Beau. In fact, I think I'm doing the opposite. Trying to frame it as a natural part of living. 'Cause it is.

Beau: Sure. If you say so.

Me: What's that supposed to mean?

Beau: What d'ya think it's supposed to mean?

Me: Don't answer a question with a question, Beau.

Beau: That's what you think it means?

Me: Now you're being obtuse.

Beau: Nope. Just gettin' real, Louise. And the reality is - all the excuses in the world does not change the truth -- you have not been keeping your commitment to post my blog every Sunday.

Me: Well... to make up for my inaction and to give your legions of fans something to watch, I've created a little video of you frolicking at the sea. Consider it a peace offering.

Beau: Hmph. A peace offering, you say? You think a little footage of me being my magnificent self is going to erase your shirking? A video is just a quick fix, Louise. A shiny bandage for a gaping wound. It doesn't change the fact that my blog has been missing, my T-Bone has been missing, and your commitment has been missing. Now Hands Up! Move away from the keyboard. I gotta check for messages from my fans. At least they never forget about me.

Dang! I was hoping a video was a good way to appease my relentless publicist (and his fan club) with a peace offering. I mean, I did spend the morning editing it.

Beau: Just another excuse, Louise. Just another excuse.

Sigh... Oh well. Here's the video anyway. And honest, it's not an excuse. It's a... peace offering. :)