Ah, January.  A new year, a fresh start on the pain.

I kid.  My knees actually haven't been as bothersome lately.  Perhaps it's the Doggie Yoga to which I've been accompanying my Two-Legged Pets.  Perhaps all the rain we've been receiving lately has perversely relaxed my knees.

Whatever the reason, I am grateful.  Any bit of relief is welcome, especially considering how crazy the humans have been lately.  Is there something about this time of year that leads my ape-descended fellow Earth inhabitants to lose all rationale thought?  My pets actually tried to put me in a sweater the other day.  A sweater.  With little doilies and fluffy balls of cotton.

I couldn't help but give them my saddest puppy dog face when Mother lorded over me the next day, a shredded pink mess hanging from her hand.

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Due to my mild manners and impeccable behavior, the son of my two-legged pets takes me everywhere when I visit him -- including the laundry room of his apartment complex.

I admit -- this canine's curiosity gets the best of him.  For the love of all that is mountain spring fresh, from where does this cacophony of laundry room smells emanate?  The people, the clothes, the plastics bottles of washing liquids ... it's enough to overwhelm a member of the noble family of Canine.

So I go, for the excitement and the discovery.

In fact, I'd almost be blissful ... if it weren't for my pain-in-the-arse arthritic knees.  (And yes, there are four of them.  Blast you, oh Blessed Lassie gods on high!)

Because a visit to the laundry room means ... we have to walk to the laundry room.

So we walk.  Down some stairs, across the parking lot, down some more stairs to The Den of Exotic and Unnatural Smells.

Michael -- the son of my pets -- puts his metal money bits into the machine, presses a button ... and stares at it.  Nothing happens.  He hits the machine.  Jostles it from the side.  Pushes the metal money bit button erratically.  Still nothing -- no gushing water sounds, no strange clanging.

Michael tilts his head to the side in confusion -- and I guffaw out loud.

"What is it, boy?" he asks.

I wink and smile.  Humans have never figured out we learned the "confused look" from them.

"You're right, I think something's wrong.  Let's head over to the office."

So we walk some more.  Up some stairs, across the parking lot, down some stairs into the complex's main hub.  I silently curse Michael for being healthy and limber.

"Yeah, well the water's turned off today from 10 - 2," the woman tells us.  "There are signs posted."

Michael hits The Look again.  "Where?"

"On every building's bulletin board," she says.

Feeling his empty pocket, Michael asks, "How do I get my money back?"

"You'll have to call the laundry machine company," she says, annoyed.

We walk (curses!) -- Michael crestfallen -- back to his apartment.

"Man, I really wanted to get this load done," Michael says.  "Later I won't feel like doing it and then a week'll go by with all these dirty clothes laying around."

I panic.  How will I keep down my dinner when faced with such a disheartening stench?

"What?!"

Michael looks alarmed.  I swing my head, worried a burglar has been caught in the act ... only to regret the stinging sensation rocketing up and down my neck.

"There are no signs here," Michael says. "Look, no sign about the water on the bulletin board, no sign on the door, no sign on the wall ... there are no signs here.  And there definitely were no signs in the laundry room."

I sense anger rising in him now.

"I'm going to go back over there and share a piece of my mind," he says.

I panic again.  Sharing a piece of our minds means walking.  A lot more walking.

"Burrrghghhgh," I moan.  (Or however it sounds to audibly-handicapped humans.)  I flash my most pathetic of puppy-dog "let's-stay-here-and-watch-'The-Price-Is-Right'-instead" looks.

He looks at me.

"You're right, boy," he says, calming noticeably.  "'The View' it is."

I panic.

It is getting colder outside.  As of late, I have noticed a particular dryness during my morning constitutionals.

Wincing, waddling and veritable wheezing ensues.  My osteoarthritic knees seem embedded with knives and daggers.

Pain.

It has been foremost on my mind.  In fact, it has consumed my mind.  I can focus on nothing else.  Desperately I try to remember a time in which I led a relaxed, medicine-free, pain-free life ... (how lucky are those who do!) ... yet it seems this disease has overtaken even the recesses of my memory.

With pain comes its cousin, Sadness.  Even a member of the noble family of Canine cannot escape its weight bearing down.

My two-legged, arthritis-free pets have noticed.  I feel it in the way they gingerly pet me, hear it in their increasingly-cautious tones.

But I have not figured out how to respond.  Not yet.  For the moment, I feel lost.  Trapped, even.

The pain.

The sadness.

Might I just say how happy I am to have left the snowy North and returned to my homeland?  I can appreciate that my Two-Legged Pets want to spend time with other members of their litter -- sometimes even I'm nostalgic for the days of old, my twelve brothers, sisters and I all huddled together as mom told us doggybedtime stories.

But the bitter cold, disappearing ground (damn you, "snow"!) and perpetual state of inactivity (see my last correspondence) were driving this here of the Noble Canine Family bonkers.

The Southwest -- it's a serene, barren place.  Nice and warm, dry weather.  Beautiful vistas.

And as long as my doggy water bowl continues to be filled, I'll remain in bliss forever.  (Though on that score, I've heard talk from my pets the water is disappearing.  Can it be?  More than marrow-less steak bones, this scenario plagues my night visions.)

I digress.

What better way to celebrate our return home?  Dinner at an outdoor cafe, of course.  (I know, it's now near or is January.  And, according to the round dial above Papa Pet, we're relaxing in 72-degree Fahrenheiters.  If you're anywhere not in the South, you probably hate me right now.  Then again, you do have water ...)

Strictly speaking, I'm not usually allowed to eat at the restaurants with my pets (silly "health inspectors," I've been told).  Though on account of my always good behavior, I am allowed to sit beneath the table.

Which brings me to the unintelligent villains of my story.

My pets were sitting there, enjoying a good meal and recounting various fun stories from the holidays (I particularly loved hearing once again how, because of losing their luggage on an airplane, one of the "New Yawk" litter actually fainted at the prospect of wearing non-form-fitting, lighter-shaded clothing).

And what should happen but two very shifty, shady young women with gelatinous bellies, thin, strung-out, excessively curly light hair, and protruding overbites sauntered in and sat at a table across the aisle.  They emanated a strange, demonic attitude.

And, to what would have been the "New Yawk" breed's horror, they were wearing sweatpants.  In public.

Almost immediately I could sense my pets' attitudes changing -- their joy dimming.

I peeked across the way to see the Evil Urchin Twins looking maliciously toward my family.  Listening in, I realized they were mimicking my pets' conversation in strange voices and then ... laughing.

My pets' auras worsened.

I was confused -- they never seemed this discomfited.  And the Squid Women -- their auras grew ever more malevolent.  The fur on my back stood straight.

It seemed my family was under attack ... but unable or refusing to do something about it.  The impulse to defend was mounting.

I felt a light pull on my pets' leash and realized we were leaving.  One of the Platypus Sisters stood up smiling, revealing several dark teeth and a hellacious gust of breath even the Two-Leggers must have noticed.  She sneered at Papa Pet, "Don't forget your purse!"

BAM!

My teeth were digging into her heavily-volumed (if oddly structureless) rump.  Squeals of pain erupted.  Shouts of anger from Dim Henchwoman #2.  A strange, potent gust of wind from my victim's other end.

Calm instructions from my family:  "Creak, let go.  Creak, she's not worth the attention for which her disgusting attitude pleads."

I bit tighter.  I was pissed.

"Creak."

No one messes with my family.

"Creak."

I could taste the fear in her sweat.

"Creak."

And what a bitch, too.  Now my OA was definitely going to flare up.

"Creak, my boy, bite any tighter and she could infect you with something."

DOH!

I released and looked pleadingly at my pets -- the last time I inadvertently said hello a little too well to a new friend at the park I had a metropolis of fleas devouring my nose.

"Good boy," The Mother Pet said.  "Everyone, we're leaving now."

That night I received a full steak bone all my own.

Beautiful, delicious marrow included.

OK, I have to admit, if you fancy yourself an attention-seeker, the canine life is rather satisfying.

Whether strolling the neighborhood with my human pets, or lounging with my pals in the park (long gone are the days of running ... too rough on my osteoarthritis), I cannot stride ten feet without some stranger gushing, asking my humans if they can pet me -- as if my arthritis-free Two-Leggers had the power to make such a decision.

But I digress.

At every turn I have new folks turning their attention to me, fawning over my every need.

And that's when the gibberish starts.

"Oh, look-at-the-big-doggie!"

"Hello!  Hell-O!  You're such a good boy, aren't you?  Yes, you are!"

"Hi, Pookie!"

(*sigh)

I cannot tell which is worse -- the puppyhood memories revived by such babytalk ("Oh ... my ... goodness, where-am-I-what's-happening-why-am-I-all-wet?!") ...

... or the feeling of self worth oozing out my paws.  ("Am I incompetent?  Am I visibly drooling?  Have I unknowingly fulfilled my lifelong fantasy of marking the human's mother-in-law's foul-smelling sofa?" ... Imagine one of those plug-in scent machines, a dryer sheet, and spicy pepper all rolled into one.  Yeah, you'd take a swipe at overwhelming that stench, too.)

It's enough to make a self-respecting dog let a frisbee go unretrieved.

Humans.  Please.

I know I'm a dog.  In my years, I have grasped this concept.

But I am not a human child.  I am not helpless.

Is it too much to ask that you not speak down to me as if I were?