Hello, my furry and non-furry friends.  I am celebrating my first birthday today.  It’s time to break out the dog friendly cake and champagne, and sing The Beatles’ “Happy Birthday” in a toast to my long and prosperous life.

The last time you heard from me directly was shortly after my man balls were unceremoniously removed.  More recently, my human mom wrote a disturbingly sentimental piece of hogwash about my status as her third “child.”  Frankly, it made me want to puke and creeped me out a bit, too.  Not her best piece of writing, IMHO.

I am not a child. I am a D-O-G.  A marvelous dog at that.  Since my previous post, I have adjusted well to my new life as a castrato.  And I have ceased humping, which thrills my human family to no end.  Everyone, that is, except my favorite Sophie, who found my humping endlessly diverting.  Her taste is impeccable.

I did suffer an unforeseen complication from my neutering, however.  The fur around my beautiful mug became terribly matted.  Human mom attempted to save my coat by torturing me with daily dematting sessions before she finally came to her senses and stopped whining about what my shorn fur would do to her reputation around town.  After the groomer cut it all off, the end result was pretty smashing, if I do say so myself.  And human mom has collected just as many compliments about her handsome puppy as she did during the eight months I spent masquerading as a sheepdog.

In other news, my human family abandoned me for two weeks in July to hike canyons in the desert. If you like to travel, you can read all about the fun they had without me in Utah (and the Grand Canyon), starting here.  I pretended to have just a so-so time while they were gone so they wouldn’t be jealous, but staying at my new friend Gene’s house was a welcome respite from the daily grind of parental nagging.  He was terrific. Took me on long walks every day, spoiled me rotten, didn’t get on my case about my listening skills. In fact, he thought I was the bee’s knees. In case you’re skeptical or think I’m exaggerating my awesomeness, here are a few excerpts from the email updates he diligently sent to my human family, which even contained praise for my human mom’s training regimen (hard to believe, I know):

“Truffle is a great dog and that is a tribute to the care and training you’ve given him in such a short time.”

“He is undoubtedly one of the best mannered, best trained dogs I have had the privilege to board.”

“Incidentally, my three grandchildren love him.”

I could go on and on, but that would be obnoxious.

I also spent a week in Ithaca, NY visiting my cousins, Thora and Temba.  Temba wasn’t interested in becoming my friend at all.  He’s what you humans call ‘aloof.’  Thora, however, was an entirely different beast. Every time I approached her to play, she started barking and growling at me.  Mind you, she weighs about 15 pounds. I acted like a gentleman most of the time, but she was a tough cookie!  When I’d wander away to find a quiet, soundproof place to hide from her noise, she’d come find me and start all over again.  Thora, if your human parents are reading this to you, be advised that you’re never going to find a boyfriend with all that yapping.

When the humans went out without us, they left the three of us canine wonders alone in the house.  No gates, no crates, no barriers whatsoever.  I was FREE.  I didn’t destroy anything.  Mom tried to shrug off my good behavior, but I could tell she was gobsmacked.  You’d think I’d now be accorded similar privileges when my human family goes out.  Wrong. It’s a good thing I still like my crate.

But I’m an adult now.  Don’t I deserve to be trusted?  I took a bite out of my favorite couch the other day, just to remind them that I have feelings, too.  On reflection, that might not have been the smartest move on my part.  What’s that old adage? Something about cutting off your nose to spite your face?