Oh, to be a dog. I wake up most mornings, wrestle with the existential dread of my alarm clock, glance at the piling bills on the counter, and then cast an envious eye at my furry housemates -- the boss' dogs -- who are belly-up, snoring like contented chainsaws. And that’s when the thought hits me, almost daily: pets, particularly dogs, have it ridiculously easy.
Let’s start with the big one, the elephant in the room that I, a human adult, grapple with constantly: money.
Dogs? Bless their blissfully ignorant hearts, they don’t understand money. Not a single red cent. They probably think those crinkly green papers I occasionally drop are just inefficiently folded chew toys. They don't stress about rent, utilities or the ever-inflating price of that fancy kibble they eat. They just assume food magically appears in their bowls every day, like manna from some benevolent, dog-food-dispensing deity. Vet bills? Car insurance? These are concepts as alien to them as quantum physics is to a squirrel -- and me. (We just had a squirrel on our deck last weekend. I should've asked him.) They live in a perpetual state of financial zen, completely oblivious to the capitalist machinery churning around them. I, on the other hand, spend a good chunk of my waking hours calculating, budgeting and occasionally weeping softly into my Buff coffee. (At least that's free for me!)
Then there’s the whole "job" concept. (This would be a bad time -- and place -- for me to complain about work so I'm going to stick to the dog's point of view.) What does a dog do for a living? Well, he naps. Vigorously. He chases his tail with the sort of dedication I only wish I could apply to my tax returns. He greets us at the door with an enthusiasm that frankly feels undeserved given his complete lack of contribution to the household income. His key performance indicators involve maximum tail wags upon my return, efficient consumption of meals and strategic placement of shedding hair on all dark furniture.
There are no deadlines, no demanding bosses (I'm not calling out anyone in particular because we have the bestest bosses in the world), no performance reviews beyond a good scratch behind the ears. He’s not worried about career progression; his only ambition is probably finding a sunbeam to nap in.
Ah, Mondays. Or Tuesdays. Or Wednesdays. Here’s another gem: dogs don’t understand weekends. Every single day is Saturday for a dog. There’s no Tuesday slump, no hump day anxiety, no Friday rush. When I finally drag myself out of bed on a Saturday morning, dreaming of leisure, the dogs greet me/us with the same unadulterated joy as they did on Monday morning -- which is usually barreling through with energy that comes from, well, I dunno where. It's just there.
To them, the concept of a "work week" or "time off" is utterly meaningless. They just exist in a glorious, perpetual present, ready for whatever adventure comes their way – be it a walk around the block or a 15-minute staring contest with a squirrel -- which, again, we had last weekend. I envy that boundless, undiscriminating enthusiasm, that constant state of readiness for joy.
And speaking of readiness, let’s talk travel. Oh, the sheer, beautiful simplicity of a dog’s travel prep.
"We’re going in the car?" I might ask, jingling the keys. The dogs' eyes -- all four of them on the two beasts -- light up like Christmas trees. Tails wag furiously. They're at the door, vibrating with excitement. "Let’s go!" is the unspoken bark. They don't need 10 minutes to get ready. Five, if they grab a quick drink of water and have to pee before departure. (With our group of Buff Boys, I can't think of a time where we've been able to go somewhere without someone demanding a "30-minute warning" so they could get every hair in place before stepping out of the house. Myself included, I'm not singling out anyone in particular.)
For dogs, there’s no frantic packing: "Did I remember my phone charger? My toothbrush? My extra pair of socks? My anxiety medication?" Their travel essentials? A collar, a leash and an unshakeable belief that wherever they're going, it will involve good sniffs and possibly ear-flapping out the window.
My pre-trip routine involves a complex mental checklist, multiple trips back into the house for forgotten items, and at least one moment of panic where I’m convinced I’ve left the stove on. For the four-legged, it’s just pure, unadulterated, instant gratification.
So yes, pets have it easy. They are the ultimate life coaches in living in the moment, embracing joy, and outsourcing all their financial and employment woes to their incredibly stressed-out human companions. They don't understand the complexities of modern life, and frankly, they’re better off for it. They eat, they sleep, they play, they love unconditionally, and they are always, always ready for an adventure, no packing required.
Sometimes, when I'm stuck in traffic, running late or staring blankly at my bank statement, I seriously consider pitching a job swap. Just for a day. I’d happily trade my spreadsheets for a sunbeam, my deadlines for a nap, and my financial worries for the simple, pure joy of a belly rub. Just imagine: no alarm clock, no bills and the biggest decision of the day being whether to chase the red dot or the squeaky ball. The only downside? I'd probably miss being able to open the fridge myself. But hey, I’m sure I could train my human to do that. They already do everything else for me, anyway. (Ahem, Brazilian Leo!)