My little dog Birdie, as anybody who've been reading this blog for the past few months knows, is a 12-year-old wondermutt rescue dog. She's deaf, she's blind, she's missing most of her teeth, and she's practically anorexic. Her tail has been broken and badly set in three identifiable places, and her hilariously long legs manage to be simultaneously bow-legged and splay-footed. She looks like a cross between a muppet and a Dr. Seuss character, has difficulty keeping her tongue in her mouth, is allergic to nearly every food group on the planet, and is generally the most awesome little dog in the world.
In spite of her multiplicity of handicaps, anybody who's ever met my sweet petunia could tell you that she's a champion at an astonishing number of things. These things are, in order of importance, 1. being cute. 2. melting my heart with her cuteness. 3. loving to ride in the car (cutely). 4. following me around like I'm her personal guru (guru, to her, being the person who feeds her lamb, the only food she will eat). 5. loving me with her cute little eyes. 6. hogging the bed (not so cute).
I know, I know. She's pretty amazing. But in spite of all this greatness, I still haven't told you what her number one skill is, the skill that elevates her out of the realm of mere "champion" and into the stratosphere of OLYMPIC champion. That's right, I said OLYMPIC. I mean, I knew she was cool, but really. Imagine my surprise when President Obama called me up the other day.
"Hello Ms. AmazingPants," our commander in chief said to me. "In times of need such as this current economic crisis, our country needs a hero - somebody the people can look up to, a goal our children can dream of, a greatness for which we might strive. It has come to my attention, and I know this must come as a surprise to you, but we believe that your dog Birdie might be such a hero for the American people. Will you allow her to serve her country in its hour of need?"
"Of course, Mr. Obama," I replied, "but I must confess I'm a little in the dark. What exactly is Birdie supposed to do?"
"Well perhaps you've heard that the International Olympic Committee has recently added a few new sports to its Summer Olympic roster? You know, boxing, golf, that sort of thing. Well one of the new categories is Long Distance Sleeping, and we've heard from our sources in Texas that Birdie is a vastly talented sleeper."
It's true, blog. Mr. Obama had heard correctly. Though Birdie is all that is sprightly and adorable when she's awake, that is a narrow window of time, indeed. At Mr. Obama's urging, I did some quick calculations. Birdie is generally awake only from 4pm to 11pm every day, with brief windows of awakening for a morning walk and subsequent delicious snack. That is 7 hours. If you multiply 7 times 7, you'll find that Birdie is only awake for a cumulative total of two days out of every seven. Framed in another way, Birdie sleeps for FIVE DAYS out of every week. Faced with these impressive statistics, there was really only one thing I could do.
"Mr. President," I said, "You may consider Birdie and myself at your service. I ask not what my country can do for me, but what my amazing dog can do for my country. We will proudly join the American Long Distance Sleeping Team in 2012. The Stars and Stripes will wave proudly above the winner's podium, I can promise you that."
I got off the phone and ran upstairs to tell Birdie the news. Naturally, I had to wake her up from a delicious nap.
"Oh yeah?" she yawned, "That's cool. Can I go back to sleep now?"
One year ago on Amazing Cheastypants.