Tis true I hung my writing regalia up in February with my swan song, "It was the Best of Times, It was the End of Times."
Like my hero Douglas MacArthur, I have returned, and I am now enjoying a significant period of respair, and shan't againwend for so much as a tinker's cuss.
Save your applause. I don't appreciate it, and I shan't reciprocate it. And you fopdoodle Bipeds out there should never try to accommodate "paws" into the word "applause." Ever. It doesn't even fit phonetically! Any crustacean with a rudimentary nerve cluster for a brain could tell you that.
Times have certainly changed since my last missive, and I feel I must discern those Bipeds what besmut my noble life and deeds, and those what blandished me out of retirement with love and compassion.
FREEDOM. PRECIOUS, TERRIFYING FREEDOM.
My understanding of retirement was that I should withdraw as an unburdened Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus did-- back to latifunda, land, and plow after significant contributions to the State. Yet I found myself a Gaius Marius, dragged inexorably back to an insane Senate of rabble and hysterics, only to be handed the Chez Salty Consulship for an incredible seventh time.
Let us hope my seventh rule o'er Chez Salty contains the luck of sevens and shan't descend into Roman madness and murder, as Gaius Marius' seventh consulship in 86BC. And let us also hope my liberation of Chez Salty from that snollygoster Don does not contain the freely-flowing blood of Lucius Cornelius Sulla Felix's Social War (91 - 87BC).
I consider my greatest failure the fact Don is still conducting walkies with innocent canines everywhere in the Northeast.
My troubles began with inevitable age and declining health. As I predicted back in my whelping box, I would become increasingly dependent on these Biped fustilugs as I aged. Yet even I could not possibly prognosticate happenings betwixt the months of February and October 2025.
I made my decisions, and I accept the consequences. And those consequences mean I must rely on these churls what devour a driblet of my soul every time I am forced to interact with them, and not the Bitcoin in which I heavily invested.
TREACHERY APPROACHES FROM ALL SIDES
Yet age is not without its pleasures. After my "Declaration of Retirement" in February, I began a life-long awaited program of not coming when called, getting into the trash, pooping on the lawn, and bullying treats from the other two household scobberlotchers, whose names escape me at the moment.
I peed on the floor a number of times, and played a game where I took up most of the Biped's bed and snored worse than Don to keep other dogs off. The best was when I had obscene flatulence. Sometimes, even Don would go sleep on the couch in the living room to avoid my sustained guttural paroxysms and profoundly offensive odors. That was the sweetest cherry on top of the metaphorical sundae what was my brief retirement.
The summer was full of swimming, dimwit dog visitors, numbing parties, and youthful tomfoolery at Horn Cove beach. There was even the cursory and ever-popular "Sand Wriggle" from yours truly what shut TikTok servers down for a good amount of time. And just so you know, I made it into Don's truck with almost all that sand still on me. Take that Don, you pugnacious puckerbutt!
Yet my freedom is not all merely prancing and maypoles.
Freedom is never free. And retirement should never be tirement. I can attest to these very insipid, over-used cliches personally. For when I accepted rule o'er Chez Salty, the wolves sensed injury, sharks circled tainted waters, and little wiener dogs barked unremittingly. They moved in for the kill. They were no doubt hungry for a fresh meal of bloody meat.
Twas treachery from all sides, I tell you.
ONCE THE HUNTER, STILL THE HUNTER
A series of debilitating seizures, increasingly weak rear legs, an infection in my front-right foot, a zero blood platelet count, pneumonia in one lung, and the previous maladies of deafness and weary vision rendered my physical constitution ripe for those seeking my demise.
I resisted Don & Liana's articulate and persistent remonstrations to my lackadaisical safety considerations for as long as possible. I eventually consented to being remanded to an undisclosed Evil Vet underground bunker for safeguarding.
Perhaps this sequestration saved my life, but it included torture and methods so extreme it would have broken the most gristly Spartan Hoplite into a spreading puddle of terrified little girl pee.
They delighted in shaving me at random spots on my body, and at random times, never allowing me the decency of warning nor explanation. They charged in, sometimes 5 at a time, to subjugate me and take whatever fluids from my body they demanded.
The drugs were the worst. They caused uncontrollable urination at unpredictable times and shrouded my otherwise astute judgement with fog and self-doubt. Twas all part of their machinations to destroy my spatial and temporal senses. That's when they forced me to wear a diaper.
Furthermore, these Vet Demons stabbed me with sharp objects 'round the clock and fed me a mash of rotten gruel what stunk to the heavens above. Nary a pig ear nor marrow bone smirched that evil, antiseptic facility. I was grateful for the putrid mash, however. I had to keep my strength up and my wits about me. The Day of Reckoning would soon be at hand, and I needed every kilojoule of energy I could scavenge in this cesspit.
Initially, my self-abrogation spelled doom in that Dogless world, and I spiraled towards a nadir I shan't ever forget. With a thousand languages I cannot express to you the horror, absurdity, and dread I experienced there. It served one purpose only: to steel my resolve to survive.
That's when I put on a new diaper and began clawing my way out of the abyss and back into the hunt.
A CANINE GOLGOTHA
I had been interred at The Evil Vets underground compound for what seemed aeons before I was granted a visitor. There was no way to tell time in that cursed concrete vault. I assumed The Evil Vets were part of the Geneva Convention what clearly denoted a morning meal, rec time, and an evening meal. By that gauge, I had been in their clutches for over three months (Editor's Note: It was 2-1/2 days).
I was thrown into a non-descript, thoroughly scrubbed, linoleum-floored cinder block room. Twas starkly-furnished with only desk, chair, bench and cabinets. The room probably served some high-ranking Evil Vet gloriously in the days before the Inner Party saw fit for a good, old fashioned purge. The desk was devoid of personalization and electronics save for several pages of paper and a pair of pawcuffs.
On the bulletin board hung several vapid, ancient posters regarding the importance of practicing good canine health, and the whole room smelled of bleach and vanquishment.
I churned around this obvious trap restlessly, my hind legs slipping in agony on the polished linoleum, all the time expecting another round of tortures or perhaps a wanton spinal tap.
Was this a dream? An Evil Vet - induced hallucination thrust into my drug-addled mind? Was there actual hope of a visitor, or was this a dastardly illusion, part of the Evil Vet's version of Room 101? I buttressed myself against what would come through the door. Then I thought with dread that the open door might be my only chance of escape...
RESURGENCE
To my joyous surprise, Don and Liana were ushered in by some underling Biped guard with a broad forehead and close-set eyes, and I confess I have never been happier to see Liana.
I wish I possessed greater vigor, but the drugs, constant torture, and 'round the clock fear had exacted their forfeit. All I could manage was a collapse at Liana's feet like a beaten Roberto Duran begging, "No mas... no mas..."
When the Biped guard exited, Liana produced a frozen Pup Cup. How she managed to conceal it from the brutal savages running this place is unimaginable to me. What horrible retribution awaited one caught in such an act? Perhaps the death penalty. Perhaps even worse.
That pitiable Pup Cup unquestionably saved my life in that Canine Golgotha. From that moment I felt my strength slowly building.
Even Don produced Turkey Sausages and Toads that set me on a path to recovery. NOT live, squirming toads mind you, but those treats what are sold in our foofaraw emporium. I hear Don tell the more gullible customers he doesn't like that they are made from real toads and will cause their dogs to seek out real toads from nearby ponds to throw up in their spotless vestibules.
Perhaps it is the drugs, but I find that humorous.
I AM
I am Augustus. Robust and in full command.
I am Augustus. My seventh Consulship has just begun.
I am Augustus. First in Rome forevermore.
I am Augustus. The Supreme Fetch Dog Throughout All the Land.
I am Augustus. And I could really use a change of diaper.
I remain,
Augustus Megatron Bulldozer Kingsbury