LONDON, U.K. -- Sammy here. Nice change huh?
Of course I know how to write. I flip ideas into his head all the time.
Who do you think got him all worked up about the annoying joggers who have taken over my park, spitting and spewing out their droplets of venom?
Be warned jogger. Don’t get too close or I will hunt you down and do a number on your precious pink peonies.
I love alliteration. It’s my literary crutch.
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It was because of the joggers that I had to start wearing a lead. Of course I’m resentful. Now I want to trip them with it.
There are so many joggers crowding the walkways of Primrose Hill and The Regent’s Park that I had to find a different trail around them. Sort of like skiing off-piste.
It was rainy last week and that made the path muddy. I hate mud. I hate puddles even more. I step carefully around puddles, and it cracks me up when I see some big dumb Lab heading straight for a sinkhole.
They even drink the water. Imagine the filth they’re sucking up. I lick grass.
(Photo: Sammy relaxes by the sea - credit: Mellissa Fung)
I’ve lost a lot of friends to this virus. We used to meet up at the café for greasy hunks of sausage that Val would pass around. Those were the days, right boys?
Then they closed the café and made us wear leads. My friends don’t come to the park anymore, and if they do, it’s just not the same. I blame social distancing. And joggers.
There’s me, Rudi, Kasper and Milo. I mean, those are some wicked names. I got stuck with Sam. Sounds like somebody’s long-dead husband. I consider myself more Duke or Champ than Sam.
They call me Sam when they want me to shut up, or stop begging. And Sammy, when they want me to sit up nicely and give a high five. That will cost them.
And they have deep conversations about me.
She: “Isn’t he just the cutest?”
He: “He’s pretty cute, alright.”
I just lay around on my blanket, shedding, and basking in it. Sometimes I give them the side-eye.
Did I tell you I’m a rescue? Yep. Straight from a high-kill shelter in North Carolina. I just got out of there in the nick. I was all skin and bones and looking pretty ratty. My first owner was a hog farmer. I was kept in a cage and ate a lot of leftover pork rind. And then one day, he just left me on the side of the road, tied to a tree. I still scratch at fleas out of habit.
Told you I could write.
Someday, I’ll tell you about my failed adoption. Now that was a trauma. You might have to wait for the book.
I have spindly goat’s legs, spotted skin and the most fun ever is coming face to face with a fox. They hang around the neighborhood eating garbage. You mostly see them at night.
Oh my God, it gives me the shivers just thinking about it.
People say I still have a bit of the wild in me.
I have to tell you I’ve enjoyed this. You know, getting together for a chat. Beats lying around all day waiting for dinner: chicken and squash, by the way. I would kill for a burger.
Before I let you go… my cousin Winston in L.A. has like 12,000 followers on Instagram. And he’s scrawny. You would never mistake him for a Duke.
I have 51.
I post pictures all the time. I tilt my head and smile. I flip my ears on command. I’m practically begging people to follow me.
It’s not fair.
Because, hey -- I’m the cutest.
thesammygrams on Instagram
Winston (@winst_o_gram)
(Photo: Sammy takes to the sea. - credit: Maureen Taylor)
