"Not my" Dog, Henry

Welcome to Not Me! Monday!

This blog carnival was created by MckMama. You can head over to her blog to read what she and everyone else have not been doing this week.

 

This "not me" Monday is all about "not my" dog.

Our family recently adopted Henry, a little mutt (we're guessing Patterdale terrier/dachshund mix?) to fill the position left in our home when our 4-legged friend, Sophie, passed away.

I must first confess to you that I have been prideful.  Yes.  It's true.  The now-deceased Sophie and her 4-legged house sister, Kota, have been well-trained little ladies.  And so, I confess to you that when I see the neighbors' dogs running about the neighborhood like little maniacs with no manners, I have (on occasion) thought to myself, "Ha!  Clearly those neighbors know nothing about dogs ... unlike my superior self."  (Hope you're not reading this, neighbors, but if you are ... you're about to see that I get mine - my fall, if you will.  But, of course, you already know that.  Except ... ahem ... this is "not me.")

Anyway, because I am the proud owner of well-behaved dogs, it was "not me" that you saw standing on "not my" front porch every other day for the past 2 weeks - at random times of day, sometimes early morning, sometimes mid-day, sometimes the dark of night - calling "Henry!  Henry!  HENRY!"  Nope that was not me. 

But if it had been, I would surely not have been embarrassed - and hoping desperately that my first quiet little "Henry!s" would bring "not my" dog racing back to "not my" porch.

But if I had called softly (so as not to disturb the peace of my nice little neighborhood), "Henry!" - he would surely have responded, so then it was "not me" that you heard shouting at not-quite-the-top-of-my-lungs (wouldn't want to draw undue attention) Henry's name over and over as I walked first around my house, then around the cul-de-sac, and finally down our street, looking here and there as if Henry were going to appear at any second.

Not me.

But if I had, then surely Henry would have appeared and run straight to his beloved perfect-dog-owner, me ... so it would not have been me that you saw spy "not my" dog, call "not his" name, only to be dodged at every overture.  As if!  As if he didn't want "not me" to scoop him up in "not my" capable hands and cover "not my" face with "not his" overjoyed kisses!  Ugh!

Not me.

But if it had been ... you would not have seen "not my" kids join in the ridiculous parade through the neighborhood back yards - calling, shouting, dancing and prancing through dormant gardens and around frost-covered decks.  Oh my word!!!  Not me!  Not my kids!  And NOT MY DOG!!!

No way, Jose'!

Whew!  So glad I have perfectly well-behaved dogs and maintain a perfectly respectable household.

Not like "not me"!

My perfectly well-behaved Henry.