Sweetie Speaks Out On Halloween Injustice
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It’s me, Sweetie, the long-suffering canine companion to a human who apparently has no shame. This year she decided we needed something more than the usual Halloween decorations. We needed something special. And what did she choose? The five-foot inflatable German Shepherd with bat wings that is currently living in our front yard.
You heard me: a nylon monstrosity, complete with LED lights so it actually glows, has taken up residence. Apparently, my human saw it online and thought, “You know what this yard needs? An air-powered insult to my dog.”
Do you know how difficult it is to be taken seriously when you’re standing next to your inflatable “evil twin”? The neighbors don’t even smile at me anymore. They smile at that thing.
Meanwhile, I, the actual German Shepherd, am conducting serious business: squirrel surveillance, strategic napping, and the solemn guarding of porch pillows. Count Barkula doesn’t chase squirrels, doesn’t bark at falling leaves, and doesn’t even notice the UPS truck. And yet he’s the star. My dignity has been deflated and replaced with nylon and hot air.
I patrol the yard with all the pride of my noble breed while that air-filled impostor looms like a yard-sale version of me. The worst part? My human actually said, “Sweetie, it looks just like you!” Excuse me. He’s inflatable, with a red tongue and huge glowing ears. While I agree my ears may be a little prominent, on me they’re majestic.
I tried ignoring it. I tried the German Shepherd glare. That the one that’s sent more than one UPS driver and numerous squirrels packing. I even considered taking a bite out of the thing. Nylon won. Now my human’s on full Neighborhood Watch, like I’m the threat. Defeated by modern materials and human vigilance. And yes, I am sulking. Who wouldn’t?
What’s next, I wonder? Inflatable squirrels? A giant plastic Snack Dad? Honestly, witness protection is starting to sound appealing. A new town, new porch, no extension cords. But I can’t leave my human unsupervised. She’d be lost without me (and probably end up decorating with those inflatable raccoons she was pointing out to Snack Dad). So I stay and endure the humiliation.
Everything considered, I suppose the only thing to do is swallow my wounded pride, add Count Barkula to my patrol, and protect that glowing monstrosity from the squirrels. Apparently that’s my life now.
At night, when the inflatable bat-dog finally sighs itself into a sad little heap and the fan quiets, I climb up on the couch with my human. She strokes my fur absent-mindedly while scrolling and “researching” treats she thinks I might like. News flash: I like all of them. Every single one. While she fusses and pets and browses snacks, the day’s indignities slip away. For a minute, it’s just me and her. There’s no glowing ears, no nylon insult, no extension cords and I remember why I stay. She may be ridiculous, but she’s still mine.
But that doesn’t mean that I’m letting this slide. I’m already drafting a strongly worded letter to the Canine Companion HR Department. Someone has to file an official grievance about the emotional damages caused by five-foot inflatable doppelgängers, and it might as well be me.
