A Day In the Life of a Beloved Family Dog. From HER Perspective

They call me Libby. Mooch. Baby Bear. McButt. Choo-Choo. Damn, they have a lot of nicknames for me. I guess it’s because they love me so much. So that’s good with me.

I’m Libby. 10 years old, give or take. I’ve been with my family for five years now. I’m talking about my 2nd, crazy family. For the first half of my life, I was with my Person’s family. Her dad and stepmom, her and her brother. I have a sister named Luna over at their house. She’s ok, for a little runt.

I’m a Pom-Chi. Half Pomeranian, half Chihuahua, but 100% attitude. I don’t care that I’m only 11 inches tall. I’ll kick your ass. Not a fan of other dogs. Small children, either. I bark at both, any chance I get. My patience is wearing thin.

I found my Person from a Craigslist ad they responded to when I was a puppy. They met my original owner and me at a park, on the bad side of town. My Person found a bag of weed at the park after they picked me up. Her dad took it from her though and disposed of it. In a series of small fires, over time.

We used to do a week over at my Person’s Dad’s house, then a week over at her Mom’s house. This went on for a few years. Then I fell in love. With my Person’s Mom. Kiera’s Mom has got it going on. She’s my favorite.

The Big Guy is a close 2nd. He’s awesome, too. He’s usually in the kitchen, where the snacks are. He cooks dinner most nights, so I’ve figured out he’s an easy mark. I’ve been blessed with good looks and eyes that make the average person want to give me stuff. And the brains to have figured this out.

My Person doesn’t like it when Mama or The Big Guy feeds me. She thinks I’m too fat. Whatever. Just because she’s skinny doesn’t mean she should be making fun of me about my weight. That’s not good for my self-esteem. Plus I love treats. A LOT.

Sometimes The Big Guy tells me he can’t give me any more treats because I’m chonky. I’m not a fan of getting fat-shamed. Maybe he ought to look in the mirror once in a while, the hypocritical bastard.

My family started calling me “Mooch” about a year or so ago. The Big Guy has a friend from the dumb golf game he’s always playing and cursing at. Russo. What a pain in my ass. He’s always calling me Mooch and talking all this shit about me on social media. I know this because I have my own Facebook. I think he’s jealous, honestly.

So The Big Guy started calling me Mooch all the time, then my Mama started in on it too. Not as often as The Big Guy, but sometimes. I get it. I’m good at my craft. I look at them with my big brown eyes, like Jesus in those Mormon-version paintings of him. As if to say, “Will you do my will, and feed me?” It generally works.

The Big Guy also calls me “Roomba”. That’s not very nice. The fact that I have to eat off the floor and find spilled food is kind of bullshit. Then it’s Mooch this, Mooch that, blah blah blah. It’s not good for my self-esteem.

I prefer when Mama has food and gives me tiny little tastes. She’s nice about it. The Big Guy is pretty generous, but he can be a moody prick sometimes. He’ll forget my taste and I’ll gently put my paw on his leg to remind him. Sometimes he’ll say, “Get your little baby paws off of me.” He thinks that’s funny, but it’s actually kind of mean. Then we make up, over a little bit of food.

All in all, I have it good. I know this. My typical day starts with Mama getting up early and taking me out to rock a piss. She’s an early riser, The Big Guy likes to sleep in. He’s a writer, so he doesn’t have to get up early and is often working later at night on his writing pieces after Mama is asleep.

We come in, Mama makes coffee and gives me a treat. Then we like to cuddle on the couch and I get my first nap of the day. Naps are important at my age. Usually, one of the loud-ass children wakes me up and forces me to bark at them. I’m very protective of my Mama.

I don’t like it when they come into our bedroom. I feel like I have to defend Mama against her children. I’m not a fan of when The Big Guy comes into the room, either. I usually won’t bark at him, unless he talks to Mama. Damn, the nerve of him. And he loves talking, too. Or god forbid, he tries to kiss her. That shit sets me off. She’s mine.

Sometimes she goes a little crazy with me. She’ll yell about how much she loves me, or roll me around to get me to play fight with her. She’s always grabbing my face and squeezing me. I put up with a lot, but I love her to pieces.

Mama brings me into the room and I’ll lick The Big Guy awake. He doesn’t dig mornings all that much, so I am sure to lick him until he wakes up. I’m talking face, forehead, that big nose of his, and even his eye sockets. He finally snaps out of his coma, pets and cuddles me. He’s a good fella.

Mama gets ready for work, and I cuddle with The Big Guy while he has coffee and gets on his laptop. She listens to music while she gets ready and it’s kind of funny. Wanna hear a secret? She plays BARRY MANILOW. Like, a LOT.

She heads out to work and I have to watch her from our 2nd story window, to be sure she makes it safely to her car. Again, I’m very protective of her. Kind of like Bolt, in that cartoon movie. I take my duties very seriously, as her guard dog and best friend.

The Big Guy starts writing and I catch nap number two around this time. He’ll usually write for a couple of hours or maybe three. Then he’ll go downstairs and makes breakfast, usually oatmeal with brown sugar. He’ll bring that upstairs with a big glass of milk.

He lets me have a little oatmeal, and says it’s good for us. Something about the oatmeal scrubbing our arteries or some such shit. Then he’ll let me have the first drink of milk because he’s a nice guy. Wanna hear a secret? He lets me DRINK FROM HIS CUP.

After that, he’ll either keep up with his writing or take a break to go work out. I’m not a fan of him leaving me home alone, but I’m even less of a fan of getting on a damn treadmill. He tells me goodbye and what time he’ll be back, which I do find thoughtful it’s appreciated. He also thinks it’s funny to tell me, “Ok Mooch, no whores while I’m gone.” Yeah, that’s what’s on my mind, Funny Man. I decide to forgive him, find the fleece blanket on the couch, and get nap number three in.

The Big Guy comes back and settles in for more writing. I like to lick his arm, leg, or even his feet. Yes, I’m a foot-licker from way back. Don’t judge me. We don’t kink-shame in this household. I can’t help it if he’s a little salty after a good workout. Plus he’s the one person in our family who lets me lick him and isn’t weird about it.

He’ll either work until lunch or may run to the grocery store to get stuff to make dinner. I’m very pro-dinner, so this is ok by me. Nap #4, check. When he comes back, it’s time for lunch. I’m also very pro-lunch. Then it’s one of my favorite times of the day, OUT-SIDE.

I get excited to go outside. He always tells me, “You like to go outside, DON’T YOU?”, as he’s putting my leash on me. Well no shit, Sherlock. I’ve taken 4 naps today already before lunchtime. I absolutely LOVE to go outside and see what’s going on in the world. And bark at anyone or anything I see.

Once I’ve done my business, we cuddle while he types more words on his laptop. I guess he keeps pretty busy, the typing on the keys puts me into a restful mood. Nap number 5, the post-lunch nap, is on the agenda.

Sometimes I dream during these naps. Evidently, they say I make noises when I’m dreaming. Mama says I’m chasing wabbids in my dreams. If they only knew the truth. It’s not wabbids. It’s the pizza delivery guy. Other dogs. And small children.

The Big Guy picks up my Person from school every day. Once in a while, he’ll take me with him in his big white truck. I LOVE that. I get so excited. Talk about seeing the world. He has a bigger, square-shaped center console, and I ride that like a surfboard. Going buh-bye is very much one of the high points of my day.

After we get home, I’ll usually catch a nap with my Person. She’s usually tired out from the school day and we’ll cuddle and catch nap #6 together. By the time we wake up from that, The Big Guy is making dinner and I’m well-rested, at the top of my game for begging.

He’ll put tunes on, have a glass of wine and sing along to his favorite songs while he’s cooking. Wanna hear a secret? He likes to sing along to Whitney Houston and Lady Gaga. Besides all the rock music he also plays.

I’ll be right beside him, trying to carefully avoid getting under his feet. I don’t think he appreciates it as much as he should, because he gets a bit flustered at me if he trips over me. I’m doing my best, maybe he should cut me a little slack.

After dinner, it’s time to chill with Mama home finally. They watch basketball together if a good game is on, and I perch on Mama, like a throne. That’s probably why The Big Guy calls me, “Queenie”. Him and the damn nicknames.

After the game, it’s Yellowstone or Ray Donovan, lately. Mama crashes out first and he stays up later until midnight or 1 AM. At least he’s good enough to run me out one last time in the dark. I try to find at least one more thing to bark at before I call it a night.

I get annoyed easily. I don’t like a lot of things. But my family, I adore them. And treats, the treats are always top-shelf. Going on adventures, that’s a high point of my day. All the naps. Being loved as much as a dog can be. I can’t complain, but sometimes I still do. Life’s been good to me, so far.