In case you are wondering, Dorothy would like you all to know that she leads a very difficult life. While people get to do their business in pristine air-conditioned bathrooms, perched on porcelain, and perhaps with good reading material at hand, Dorothy is forced to pound the hot pavement in search of a good spot. Such a search and such a pounding involves moving her Very Own Legs, and sullying her Very Own Pink Paw Pads.
This is unacceptable. But since I yell and scold if she should do her biz-ness inside, causing her to run to Mr. Snacks for comfort and tuck her head under his arm, outside she must go! Frequently.
What is even more horrible, apparently, oh woe is Dorothy!, is that after she walks a half-block and finds a good spot and performs adequately, she then – get this – is expected to walk back home! Are you not outraged?! Dorothy certainly is.
So now when she walks the half-block home with perhaps a break to sit, and then a break to be praised by passers-by, and then a break to kiss passers-by, and then a break to roll over on her back for a small child, and then a break to wrassle with a passing dog, and then a break to be startled by the sound of a car wheel crushing garbage, and then a break to protest and lie down flat on her belly on the sidewalk…well then, as you can imagine, a girl like Dorothy is plumb-tuckered out.
She will manage to walk in the first door, and walk up the six or seven steps to sit on the top step for a treat while I unlock the inside door. But after such an excursion that I have just put her through, do you think she can walk up the hall to our apartment?
The answer is no. She most certainly cannot. A bulldogge is simply too tired for hall-walking. And so Dorothy is now in the habit of collapsing in exhaustion after we get inside our building. She flops down on the carpet and will even roll over on her side in the middle of the hall and lie there all dehydrated damsel-like.
Yesterday, I left her lying there, and went into my apartment and got my camera and returned to my battered bulldogge. My going into the apartment and letting the door close behind me caused her to roll over from her side to her belly, but she still was not going to get up on her own four legs on her own accord. So here is Dorothy, oh so exhausted:
Will not someone invest in a red wagon?
How about a palanquin like Queen Victoria used to travel in?
A rickshaw mayhap?
All together now: oh poor Dorothy!!