When my mum asked me if I’d like to discuss being a Scottish pup in the States on her blog I started jumping up and down (only because she finds it endearing) and said I would be delighted. I quite like talking about myself, after all. Even though I’m only 1 1/2 years old, I’m rather wise for my age. I’ve been to three different countries already!
I was born on a Scottish farm outside of Glasgow, the largest city in Scotland. I was only on the farm for mere weeks before my human parents snatched me up, but whilst there, I loved playing footie with my siblings, eating fish and chips on Burns Night, watching my favourite programs on the tellie and running through the green fields. I had hoped to acquire my own castle with the help of my Westie family, but my human parents promised that if I went with them, I’d have a good life in the States. I obliged. As you can see from my mother’s excessive dog photos on Instagram, they kept their promise and I am now spoiled. But, come to think of it, that’s rather strange since my Scottish parents told me that Americans have a difficult time honouring their promises. Maybe they were just talking about that Donald Trump man and the sand dunes he’s ruining with his garish Scottish golf course in Aberdeen. Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. My dog mum and dad are still happily married on that farm and I hope to someday visit.
Everything is big in the States and I find drive-throughs to be absolutely absurd. I enjoyed trotting around the UK, taking in the character of the old buildings and people-watching, so I don’t understand why you would decide to drive to run your errands. My parents are always complaining about urban sprawl, though. I’m not sure what that means but maybe that’s why we’re always in the car. I’m told that when we’re back in the Washington, DC area (in God knows how long) I’ll enjoy the walkability of the city. I’m not sure I’ll like DC though because I’ll most likely be surround by those Hill geeks and their aggressive foreign policy beliefs. I suppose I’ll have to endure it since I agreed to this life.
In my spare time, I deal with strange visitors in my home. My parents enjoy fostering shelter dogs but then I’m stuck dealing with smelly fur balls I don’t care for. Sometimes there will be a gem among the group and we’ll become fast friends, but usually the mutts end up eating my food and shredding my toys. I’ll be glad when this phase of their life ends.
I have to go because my mum has begun to call me using her baby voice. Don’t my parents realize this isn’t necessary anymore? Numpties.
Filed Under: Dogs, Postcards from Malcolm