So I'm getting older.  And have to go to the bathroom more often.

Deal.

The endless love I shower upon you, my Two-Leggeds, should more than make up for a quick bathroom respite here and there.

Recently my pets took me to visit others related to them -- who, I claim by default as my pets, too.  I enjoy seeing them.  They take pity on my haggard, osteoarthritis-riddled knees and slide me honey ham beneath the table.  (My pets work tirelessly to hide their food from me.  Like my knees could get any worse.)

But the car ride over irks me.  Something about the canned sounds, the lack of space, and the constant vibrations ... I step out of the car for a bathroom break and find my already sore knees unable to function.  Dizziness invariably ensues.

I thought humans were supposed to be the most brilliant creatures on earth.  But, after all this time, they still haven't figured out how to fix my knees, nor fly their cars -- thus achieving a smoother trip?

I guess I have to deal.

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Of all my two-legged human pets, The Daughter is by far the most athletic.

Unfortunately for me, she's also the one who takes me on walks.

As of late, she has decided we should increase our pace, working our "cardio" better.  I don't know what this mystical "cardio" may be but, unless it's a pork-filled treat, I am not interested.

What was once a fun, relaxing (if waddle-filled) activity has now become a nightmare -- my arthritic knees creak and groan with every concrete and asphalt impact.

I try moaning pitifully to remind her of my the shooting pains in my legs.  She looks down at me with what she must consider a winning smile, saying, "C'mon, Creak, this is good for you!"

What I need is a no-impact doggy elliptical.

In the meantime, I'll settle for classic trickery -- I've hidden my leash in a two-feet-deep hole in the backyard.

No more "cardio" for me.

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The second day I arrived at my pets' house, I spotted the reading chair that would become my own throne -- soft, with a slight rocking sway.

Sure, it's needed a few extra sheets and a cotton comforter over the years to help alleviate pressure on my knees ... but lying on my throne is like floating in a cloud.

I can lie in it all day, observing the crazy antics of the Two Leggers -- racing in and out, in and out ... a coffee in one hand, one of those obnoxiously loud and vibrating squawk box "phones" in the other.

I can doze off as my pets stare at the moving picture box, transfixed by its flickering images and all-too-realistic sounds (my word, if I get spooked by one more suddenly-appearing-and-barking Canine, I'm going to smack someone with my food bowl).

And I can painlessly dream of my perhaps slightly misspent youth, spent chasing tail (literally) and eating, chewing, and nibbling on everything in sight.

My pets have all abdicated my throne to me, adding other places to recline around it.  It is my chair -- my place in the household.  They respect that.

Recognizing that respect feels good.  Because, I gotta say, when they start in with the baby talk, I wonder ...

So my pets think they're clever.

Hands hidden behind backs before mealtime.  The faint glimpse of a plastic syringe.  A strange cherry sogginess in my normally dry food.

They're trying to poison me.

Ah, the heartbreak!  I cannot imagine what I have done to deserve this fate.  Was it the frequent trips to the doctor for my limping?  Was it the massive amounts of money bits they paid for my osteoarthritis injections?

Have they just grown tired of me?

A deep feeling of remorse has overcome me.  How did this happen?  I never complained about my knee pain, never whining and moaning.  I valiantly kept up with the youngest of the Two-Leggers, even if waddling to do so.

Sure, I may have be hit with a few reverse sneezing episodes as of late, but you would, too, if your soft palette extended into your esophagus.

Where's the loyalty?  The oath to care for one's family -- not harm them?

Sigh.

I must plan my escape before it's too late.

And when I find this Mr. "Benadryl" my pets keep mentioning, I'm going to sink my teeth into him.

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.

As I lie here watching my pets scurry around the house -- shoelaces untied, a backpack hiding from its owner, young ones too nervous to eat a proper breakfast -- I realize that my life as a member of the noble family of Canine has yet another benefit:  no forced schooling.

Whereas the Two-Leggers are all a fret, running around as school starts back up, I get to lie here.  Relaxed.  In fact, I could just go back to sleep if I want to.  Maybe get up in the early afternoon, and have one of my older pets rub my belly.  You know, just to get them to talk in those ridiculous baby voices.

Although, sometimes I wonder if that's the osteoarthritis talking (the wanting to just lie around, not the "let's-tickle-belly" baby voices).  If I felt younger and sprier, would I not mind running around myself a little, heading off to dog-training school?  I could serve a greater purpose and help firemen fight fires or the blind find those buttons on ATM machines.

Ouch.  My knees.  (All four of them.)

Alas, I cannot finish the thought without feeling the pain.

Back to the doggy bed it is.  Perhaps this afternoon I'll feel better.