Sleeping with the Enemy

Hello, this is The General. My sister Carol is so busy keeping tabs on the comings and goings here that she’s neglected her blog. She claims she has her paws full with keeping us in order with our moms traveling more frequently, but that’s a bunch of cockamamie. If one of my troops failed to report for duty for months on end, I’d give them the boot!

While Carol frets over keeping tabs on that these limp noodles here, I’m dealing with a mutiny. Apparently some of my soldiers think Eggnog – Eggnog! – is a better leader than yours truly. What nonsense!

Is this the face of a Leader?

Now that’s more like it!

Before you accuse me of being a male chauvinist dog, hear me out. I’m tired of that little fluffball getting everyone’s sympathy! Eggnog’s the ONLY one in this house that sleeps in the bed with our moms, Eggnog’s the ONLY one that isn’t crated when our humans aren’t home, and Eggnog’s the ONLY one our moms take with them when they visit Grandpa (while the rest of us stay home with a “pet” sitter – the humiliation!).

Eggnog has all of these suckers feeling sorry for her while she lives in high cotton! But not me. I see through her machinations.

See how terribly she suffers. Give me a break!

You might hear all of this and say Eggnog sounds like a brilliant leader. Maybe she is – if you think politicians make great leaders with all of their scheming and backroom deals. I, however, prefer to honor leaders with excellent moral character. Great men like General Sherman and Ronald Reagan.

It’s all very troubling. Every morning I come downstairs to find another of my soldiers has defected and joined Eggnog’s camp. First it was Lieutenant Dan – but given his history of hard living, I wasn’t too troubled by losing him.

Look at Eggnog’s face. Caught red-pawed!

Next came Private Rick, a young lad who I knew was easily influenced. So I shrugged off that one, too.

But then came the sock in the gut – Colonel Sanders, my trusted advisor that I called friend had turned coat.

How could he? And to think I called him friend.

The Colonel and me during better times.

That’s when I knew I had a problem on my paws. Swift action was required.

My first course of order was to submit a formal request to the Joint Chiefs of Staff requesting re-relocation of my troop basket.

You need not remind me that the prior request resulted in the basket being moved to its current sub-par location. Frankly, given my current situation, I would submit to the troop basket being returned to its original spot.

While terribly inconvenient for a canine of size like myself, at least in its prior location the troops are shielded and do not have a direct line to the enemy’s camp.

Second, I recruited my brother, Walter, to conduct an investigation into the matter. I know, I know. Walter’s afraid of his own shadow, yet I’m sending him across enemy lines. But I’m a General and I know how to motivate – I promised Walter that if he completes his task successfully, I’ll stop calling him a ninny. As much.

Ninny.

And, finally, I instituted a propaganda campaign in an attempt to stem the tide.

It’s too soon to tell if my efforts will be fruitful, but I’m optimistic.