My name is Brinkley. I'm a two year old silver Labrador Retriever. My mama says to tell you I'm not a Weimeraner. I don't know what that means but apparently it's important, so, consider yourself told.
Basically--I'm a dog, as you can see. The only title I care about is my name. It starts with a Brink and ends with a Lee. And when mom calls it, it usually means three things: Love, Food, or Balls. I love balls!
As I think back to my first ball, which I think was yesterday or maybe the day before, I realize the importance of a good ball. I sleep with them. And that's very important because I sleep alone. See I'm scared of the stairs to mom's room. They're tall and have big holes in between them. Craziest things I've ever seen and surely not meant for puppies (but more on that later). Anyway, since losing my big brother, which was yesterday or maybe the day before, I find a ball to be great company.
It doesn't mind if I chew on it. It loves to be chased--just like me! And the best thing is, it never gets tired--just like me! I can play with it by myself but the best way to play is with MOM! I get so excited when I see her pick up a ball (Which are always laying around the house. I should be more careful with my balls because I once went to the doctor and lost my--well,ya know--special balls there. I don't want that to happen again. But that's another story.).
This is my ball face--or game face! Game-on-face! You get the point. I know, it looks like I'm constipated, but I'm really not. I'm not allowed to poop in the house(stupid rule but more on that later).
She makes me wait a long time for it. In fact, by the time she gives it back, it feels like my eye balls might pop right out of my skull. This always makes her laugh. It is pretty cool, I guess. I sure do love to make her laugh. She does this thing with her voice, where she babbles baby talk at me. She appears very unstable, not the leader that I know her to be, but I wag my tail anyway. It's better to just humor her until it passes. I humor her allot (but more on that later).
But boy oh boy, when mom throws that ball she can really huff it! She has a pretty good arm for a female. Though she could use some stamina training. We'll have to work on that.
Anyway, I think humans in general don't play ball enough. They're always on the go, running here or there. I have no idea what is more important then play, but whatever it is, causes far to much stress. Life is too short. I mean how long do we have on this earth, 10 15 years max! Unless you're a cat and then you get twice as much. I have no idea why but I think it's their diet. Or maybe that they're allowed to poop in the house, I don't know, it's all very confusing. I just know that I don't want to loose my human. I want my mom to live as long as I do, so I make sure that she plays ball with me every day. I follow her around, hot on her trail, ball firmly planted in my mouth. If she doesn't get the hint, I bonk her with it. Nothing too hard, just a tap, usually on her knee while she's on the toilet (HEY! Why does she get to poop in the house?) Well, I just want the best for her, and of course, I want to play ball. It's a match made in heaven.
Mom and I, we're good for each other. I love her very much and I know she loves me. Sometimes she comes down to the guest bedroom and sleeps with me. She's very brave and not scared of those stairs at all! She even lets me get into bed with her and I'm allowed to bring a ball. I admit she sorta fussed about this at first, but I just gave her the look:
Now I'm allowed to bring several balls to bed with me. I think she feels guilty for not letting me poop in the house.
But more on that later.
Brinkley
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