Danny Goes on Vacation
My name is Andrew Joyce, and for those of you who keep up on the adventures of Danny the Dog, I’m his human and he’s my dog. He’s always writing about me, telling you nice people what an idiot I am and that I drink too much. I want you to know right here and right now that I am not an idiot.
It’s summertime again, and, as you all know, that’s when Danny takes his vacation.
When we first hooked up about fourteen years ago, Danny insisted that we sign a contract so we’d both know what was expected from the other. He got his attorney to draw one up, and because, at the time, I could not afford a lawyer, I signed what was put in front of me without reading it. Well, imagine my surprise eight months later when July rolled around and Danny told me he was taking his contractually-mandated vacation. It seems that on or around July 4th of every year, Danny takes a month off.
This year he’s in the South of France cavorting with the Beautiful People. He has sent me a few emails (when he’s not too busy) and lots of pictures. I think he’s trying to rub it in that I’m stuck here in the Florida heat with no one for company except hordes of mosquitoes. I wonder if they have mosquitoes in France. I hope they do.
Anyway, because Danny’s not here, his writing duties have fallen to me. I tried to get out of it, but Mr. Ape also has an attorney, or solicitor as he would say. I was threatened with a lawsuit if Danny’s story was not on Mr. Ape’s desk in plenty of time for his June deadline. I pleaded with Mr. Ape. I reminded him that his contract is with Danny, not me. But that did no good. Mr. Ape can be a real hard-ass when he wants to be, as I’m sure most of you know by now.
My heart is not in this. I could be watching an episode of The Kardashians or The Real Housewives of Atlanta. I don’t need this … thanks, Mr. Ape … and thanks a whole lot, Danny!!!
Okay, enough with the preamble. This missive should be entitled, Andrew Rats Out Danny.
There are just three points I want to make. And please keep in mind that what follows is all true—sadly, it’s all true.
Danny does not eat his dinner as a normal dog should. I put the bowl down for him and he’ll wait until I go away, or I’m not looking at him before he’ll deign to lower his snoot and take a bite.
Every day is Halloween for Danny. We live at the end of a long dock and there are about thirty boats between our boat and the gate that keeps us in our little asylum. Meaning, the gate that leads to the outside world where Danny and I sometimes take our walks. As we walk down the dock, Danny remembers every boat where he has gotten a treat in the past. Of course, he has to stop at each locale and wag his tail. Sometimes the people will see him and bounce out of their cabins like they were shot out of a cannon. Danny has that effect on people. They’ll talk sickening baby-talk to him and give him a treat. Thus perpetuating the foolishness. So it’s one boat after another, just like little kids on Halloween going house to house for their candy.
When we come in from our walks, Danny gets his treats because it’s been so long since he’s had one—like five seconds. It used to be a hotdog, but now he’s into turkey slices. I give him between five and seven small slices every morning—depending on how much of a pain-in-the-butt he’s been on our walk. Now … here’s the kicker. I’ll hold out a slice and Danny will smile at me, but he will not approach me. To him it is a contest of wills. I must bring it to him. And sometimes I will humble myself and bring it to him. But why, oh why, can he not be a typical dog and scarf it down, maybe taking a finger or two with it? I asked him that very question once and this was his answer: “Then, I would not be Danny the Dog. I’d be just a regular run-of-the-mill dog. And you wouldn’t want that.”
Maybe I wouldn’t, but I wish he would vacation closer to home. I sure do miss him.