Puttin’ on the dog (Henry writes)

My Dearest, Dearest Readers,

Heartfelt thanks to each of you for joining Me this week as I mark another year of being alive.

Yes—it is My birthday!

Or—ahem—at least it’s the annual day set aside for marking this monumental occasion, as I was projected to be approximately thirteen months old when I inherited the kingdom over which I currently rule. Thus saith the veterinarian to My Family when I was … er … adopted as a … (sigh) … foundling.

Which by no means affects My jurisdiction, mind you, nor My inalienable rights.

Speaking of which: As We share the same birth month, I felt that I could afford to be magnanimous to the United States of America by donning a bit of stars and stripes. I assure you that this is not an attempt to throw the nation a bone, as it were, nor to outshine any festivities:

Although I am looking quite glorious for five years of age, don’t you agree?

Let Me just say that while My Family is busy celebrating the paramount importance of My birth, I am truly and humbly grateful for every minute that I live. Indeed, I spend the whole of my existence, every minute of every day, asleep as well as awake, attempting to convey the indescribable magnitude of My love for them. I can scarcely keep it from bursting forth from My exceptionally big heart, with every single beat.

They are, after all, My People. Who dwell in My home.

Our relationship is one of complete mutuality (as long as I am patted and scratched for the length of time I deem to be appropriate, and as long as I am provided with delectable morsels at exceedingly regular intervals).

With proper obeisance shown Me (and ONLY Me), all remains peaceful here in Our tiny realm.

And so it is no wonder that an artist was inspired to capture My likeness on canvas, as befits one Who reigns supreme. I therefore give you this portrait in commemoration of My birthday, that you might henceforth hang it in your heart gallery alongside your own sovereign rulers:

img_2433

Henry Rollins Haley. 2019. His fifth year.

Always,

HRH*

*not His Royal Highness, although I can see how it would quite easily be inferred. This is America, remember? In the absence of a title—alas—I simply sign My monogram.

Off now to rest My aching toenails (how DO you Humans spend so much time on these atrocious devices??) and to locate Me a Person for snoozing against.

[Editor’s Note: For your convenience, Henry has archived all of his posts under the Henry Writes category. He says this will have to suffice until he has his own site, etc. ]

Henry writes on injustice

Henry maintains his own category, “Henry Writes,” on Lit Bits and Pieces.

Dear, dear Readers (if you are still out there, and haven’t abandoned Me, yet),

I write today out of great offense, so great that I can no longer keep silent.

Never did I see such a thing coming.

Never could I imagine a thing so, so—demeaning, so insulting.

I am, in fact, still in a state of utter disbelief.

I am not even sure I can bring Myself to voice it. My toenail trembles so against the keys as I type this that I continually have to backspace to correct My errors (if only My forepaws had the span and flexibility of People’s! What I could accomplish if I could use more than one toe at a time!).

I have been told [—shudder!—] that I am . . . I am . . .

overweight.

[Heavy sigh].

So said the veterinarian immediately upon entering the exam room at my last check-up. The very first words out of her mouth: “How much are you feeding him? He’s going to have to drop some pounds.”

She didn’t even pet Me first, and I have such gloriously silky fur.

My dignity is not merely in shreds. It is entirely evaporated. Gone. Nonexistent.

Poof.

It didn’t really matter what was done to Me after that, as I couldn’t care, so deep was My hurt. I figured My People would surely console Me with a TREAT when we got home, as I work hard to bring out their generous nature and their sympathy. If I am especially winsome, I can usually finagle two TREATS out of them.

But a most egregious fate awaited Me.

My breakfast and dinner were DRASTICALLY REDUCED and I got no TREATS for days! Then, at last, when I saw I was about to receive a TREAT, I momentarily lost My cool (quite striking) head and threw Myself into near-convulsions of ecstasy . . .

Abject disappointment.

Readers, it was the size of a gnat. No, a flea.  

This couldn’t possibly be a treat, this barely-existent bit of almost-air.

“Here you go, Boy,” said My She, “it’s just five calories! You can even have another!”

If you aren’t aware, Readers, two times nothing is still nothing.

I am, after all, a strapping, stunning creature in the absolute prime of My life; I give away all the joy and love My being can muster; I do not deserve this treatment.

All because a veterinarian questioned My weight.

I question the validity of that framed diploma in her office.

I will leave it to you, My dear, dear Readers—is this not the most appalling picture of injustice you’ve ever seen?

img_1544-2

 

I see you

From the desk (so to speak) of Henry Rollins Haley (HRH), “pawthor” of the Henry Writes posts

[With right paw, adjusts laptop lid for best camera angle. Commences typing with one foreclaw]

Hello again, at last.

It’s been a while, has it not?

I’ve not forgotten you.

It’s just that I SO RARELY get screen time.

Can you see me—?

Because I can see you.

And, frankly, I’m worried. A lot.

You seem tired. Tense. Does your head hurt? Your bones? Your heart?

Something does. I sense it.

It makes me anxious.

Not for myself.

For you.

See, I have this innate, overwhelming, all-consuming need for everything to be okay, and it can’t be, if you are not okay.

I have no alternative but to dispel this disequilibrium. I am utterly compelled to restore a balance of Well-Being and Goodwill, for, otherwise, I simply cannot cope.

I’m unable to speak this, as you know. I must communicate via the only means I have.

Fortunately, I can type . . . .

But better still, I come as close as possible to you. I wait for you to see me. To acknowledge me, welcome me, invite me. Give me a sign. Then I will offer you my questing paw, my nudging nose, the long, velvety-warm magnificence of Me, custom-made for absorbing your sadness, your tears, your aches, your angst, so that they melt deep and far away, into insignificance, to irrelevance, nearly to nonexistence.

My gift is calm. My presence, peace. Your being, my being.

And so I wait and watch, hoping, hoping, forever hoping. Can you see it in my eyes?

Can you see me?

I see you.

*******

Henry writes again

Dear Readers:

Greetings!

As I’ve a few moments while My People are busy, it pleases Me to skim the goings on of this site.  I’ve been clicking through comments (literally clicking, the sound of My nail striking the keyboard) and have discovered, to My utmost delight, that many of you have expressed the wish that I write again.

It gives Me great pleasure to grant this wish.

I shall share My important work with you today.

I wake of a morning at approximately 4:00 a.m. Usually She is up by then and ready to attend Me. I exit my bedchamber and make My way into the Room of Dining, where I receive, in no especial order, a massage (if insufficiently performed, I simply nudge Her repeatedly until she does it again, to My satisfaction), a hearty breakfast of salmon nuggets for Sensitive Systems, and a brisk jog around the posterior courtyard. I re-enter the dwelling and wait for the fine tidbit that is given Me simply because I am Me.

Then I rest a while before awakening My other Servants. I give them ample time, but, as I am no sloth, and have little patience for slothery, eventually it becomes time for me to sit— with all due respect— outside of closed bedchamber doors, politely clearing my throat so that less-early risers will get the message: It’s time to get up.

Once I’ve roused the entire Staff, and everyone has greeted me properly, they go about grooming themselves. My important work is nearly done. By approximately 6:00 a.m.

With the household up and running, I am ready for My morning nap. I retire to the master bedchamber, where the gilded quilt atop the bed is freshly prepared for Me. I perform My ceremonial turning, turning, turning, before situating Myself ever-so-comfortably in My luxurious robe of red.

Which smells most wonderfully of Her.

<sigh>

I wish for you an equally charmed day. And existence.

-My robe awaits. I shall meet you here again soon, perhaps.

Fondly,

Henry Rollins Haley (HRH)

P.S. Noting the lack of My own category on this site, I have chosen to take the high road. Rather than pointing out this glaring oversight to Her, in particular, I have simply created a category for Myself: “Henry Writes.” When not consumed by My important work as described above, I may write a few words. And, if you can figure out a way to send Me some of those magnificent tidbits through this screen, I would be most appreciative.

Henry writes

Dear Readers,

First of all, hello.

I didn’t realize you were out there. Apologies.

I was only sniffing around to see what She is doing all the time on this, this . . . annoying Electrical Thing. I am forced of late to spend a great deal of time sitting on the kitchen rug by her chair instead of on the sofa where She will cuddle with Me. Granted, I can cuddle with a He (there are three from which to choose), but, as She has the warmest lap, She makes the best pillow.

I cannot figure out what’s so compelling about this Electrical Thing, other than, as I’ve just discovered—having inadvertently hit a movable part—there being a story here about ME.

Well. I don’t know what to think. And that accompanying photo of me-! I am aghast.

Do not tell Her this but I tried getting rid of that unflattering story. I confess that I don’t know how to make it go away. But I am, if I don’t say so Myself, a quick learner, as you can see, although it is taking Me a while to tap this out with one nail.

I do have stories, some that you might need to know, and others from long ago that—well, I prefer not to talk about long ago when I was found living on the streets. It brings a shudder even to this day. If I seem, ahem, needy [air quotes], there are reasons: I have loved, lost, and been lost.

-Hang on. She’s supposed to be sleeping. Must check. Be right back.

[clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick . . . 

clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick]

Gracious, how loud My nails are on the hardwood floor when the house is quiet! I’ve been in trouble yet again for biting them, but, HELLO, it’s time for a pedicure, if Anyone cares.

In the interest of time, before They All wake up: Rest assured that I will be vigilant about policing what is said about Me here, as vigilant as I am over what that abhorrent, slobbery yellow monster out back is doing, the foul fiend that She talks to so nicely in the voice meant for Me and ONLY ME, that incessant barker, copious shedder (My own hair, very, very fine, just comes off in wee, hardly perceptible amounts), that, that ANIMAL whose story has, unbelievably, won some kind of recognition, if My ears didn’t deceive me whilst pretending to be asleep during recent conversations.

-Egregious.

Happy to make your acquaintance, however. Until next time, I leave you with a far better image of Me, bedecked in My holiday finery:

Fondly,

HRH (Henry Rollins Haley)

Paterfamilias, Dominus, Master of the House