Dog Diary — End of Week 3 of My New Life

“Sara: In Dundies, In Drama, Yet Somehow Still Dignified”

(Please read in the voice of a glamorous, mildly put-upon Victorian heroine who has been forced to live among peasants.)

Dear Diary,

Week three began beautifully — as it should for someone of my stature.

In the afternoons, I was escorted on my daily constitutional. Two houses down lives a woman who clearly recognises royalty when she sees it. She emerges from her front yard every single day just to gaze upon me and whisper sweet compliments like, “You’re beautiful!” Naturally, I look for her too. I continue to honour her with performances atop her 20cm brick retaining wall — a feat of balance, grace, and theatrical flair. The humans calls it “safe.” I call it “the Sara Cirque du Soleil Experience.”

At the park, I left my scent in all the correct places. It’s important that every local dog knows that Lady Sara of Foster Lane has been conducting official business.

And then… my heat started.

And my life fell apart.

The woman placed me in dog undies.

DUNDIES.

A punishment so severe it must break at least three sections of the Geneva Convention. If there is a lower humiliation for a proud rescue queen, I have not yet encountered it.

To express my dignified disapproval, I transformed into a house cat — rubbing myself continuously against her legs, refusing to leave her side, and haunting her every move like a fluffy, disgruntled spirit wearing a saggy nappy. Even now Diary, as she attempts to transcribe the events of my week for posterity, I insist on sitting in her lap and ensuring she only has one useful hand to type.

But fate was not done tormenting me.

That same day, I was whisked back to the vet so he could admire my improving skin. Sadly, he did not know I had already graced the veterinary establishment last weekend. And at the end of our visit, this man — this so-called "doctor" — led to unexpected betrayal: The Cone of Shame was bestowed upon me like a curse from an incompetent wizard.

He said I must wear it for one week.

ONE. FULL. WEEK.

Spoiler: I lasted 24 hours.

Not because I quit — but because the humans quit.

Apparently, the cone was “completely unsustainable!” a conclusion they reached after:

I bashed it repeatedly into the side of the car in the garage (their fault for leaving the door open)

Turned their legs blue by ramming them like a furry jousting knight

Knocked over a potted plant (take note: I am faster than the woman who was running to move it out of my way)

Helped wash the floors by tipping over my full water bowl (to help clean the mess from the pot plant, duh).

You’d think they’d THANK me for cleaning the floors — they needed it! But instead, they just sighed and said things like, “It’s not her fault; she’s doing the best she can.”

I slept two nights with that wretched funnel around my face. It made me itch everywhere — ears, throat, dignity. But once it was removed, harmony was restored. I stopped scratching my ears and neck, the weird little ear growth stayed calm, and everyone was happier. Especially me.

Well... maybe the humans might have been more happier to see the end of the cone than I was. The woman tells me she has ordered me a much nicer cone that is soft and furry and will let me eat and drink. 

Because I’m in heat, I was tragically robbed of my last two daily walks. I have expressed my displeasure by staring dramatically out of windows and scratching at the garage door.

But in lieu of walks… we have gone on car rides.

And last night, Luke man gave me ICE CREAM.

Heaven. Absolute Heaven.

The woman said I deserved it because I am a "trooper".

I rewarded them with endless cuddles, kisses, and permission to rub my belly.

Other notable developments:

I worry that my admirer two houses down is distraught that she hasn’t seen me in two days. Fame has its burdens.

Luke man now calls me Sare-Bear because I am soft like a teddy. (I approve.)

I’m gaining confidence in the backyard, rolling around to perfume every square metre with my scent. I can now go up onto the deck and down the stairs by myself. The woman watches like I’m a baby gazelle attempting its first steps.

This week, I also proved my athleticism and devotion by leaping into Luke’s arms without warning.

He caught me. As he should - otherwise the drama would have been unbearable.

Our mornings now involve me curling into his lap as he sips his coffee. We are adorable. Someone should paint us.

No Kevin Bacon movies this week. A tragedy of Shakespearean magnitude.

And today… I suffered another bath.

I now smell like a meadow of roses and my fur is once again too soft, which means strangers will want to touch me. Ugh.

Diary, this week was not my finest — but I endured. I am brave. I am strong. I am a soft, fluffy warrior in dundies.

May next week contain fewer undergarments and more ice cream.

With love, hardship, and fabulous resilience,

Sara 🐾

Lady of the Dundies

Sare-Bear of the Morning Coffee Ritual

High Priestess of Dramatic Inconvenience