W oof! I have to tell you people that it’s been a very hard couple of months. Something funny happened to my ear, and I had to go to the pokey place where they give me pinches and say things like, “This won’t hurt a bit.” (It does.) When we left, they made me wear this giant plastic lampshade on my head. My pack-family calls it “The Cone.” I call it “Public Humiliation.”

And I have to confess something important: I’m a flapper. Yep. I flap my head and ears all the time. When my four-leggers ask me a question and my answer is “yes,” I flap my ears! That’s how we communicate. (I personally trained my two-leggers in this system. They’re slow learners, but they’re trying.)

BUT my two-legged pack-family won’t let me flap anymore. They say it hurts my ears. So now when I try, they yell in unison, “No flapping!” like I’m some kind of wild animal. I’m telling you, this is woofin’ awful. A dog should be allowed to flap. It’s in the handbook.

What’s even worse is that I don’t get my Beau’s Throws any more. For those of you who know me, you know that I go out in the lake every single day of the year. Snow? I swim. Ice? I swim. Surface of the sun? I swim harder. When it’s bitter cold, I still like it. When it’s brutally hot, I absolutely love it! Swimming is my thing. Some dogs dig holes. Some dogs nap. I retrieve things from water like it’s my full-time job.

But now? Nobody’s letting me swim. My two-legged pack-dad keeps using the words “lake” and “Beau’s Throws” in conversations like he’s dangling hope in front of my face. I suspect he’s trying to tell me we’ll get back out there at some point. I sure hope so.

One thing my two-legged pack-dad has been doing for me—ever since I got this ridiculous cone—is sharing his crunchy worms. Now, to tell you the truth, I don’t really like two-legger food very much. Yes, I know. I’m a Labrador. I’m supposed to eat everything. But it’s just not my jam. What I like ten times more than eating is fetching and swimming. If you threw a sandwich into the lake, then we’d be talking.

However, there is one food you two-leggers eat that I absolutely cannot resist. It comes in little bags, and when my dad pulls one out of the snack drawer, he always says the same long, magical word: “WannaSplitABagACheetos?”

Oh. Man. I freeze. I stop whatever important task I’m doing (usually supervising). I sit on my butt and snap to attention like a very furry soldier. Showtime!

He bends down close to my face. He eats one orange crunchy worm. Then he gives me one orange crunchy worm. Then he eats one. Then I eat one. Back and forth. Very civilized. Very fair. We continue this sacred ceremony until the bag is empty and our fingers—well, his fingers—are suspiciously orange. I love those things. They’re cheesy. They’re crunchy. They leave evidence. I don’t know… they’re just woofin’ good.

Most of the time, my two-legged pack-dad says two-legger food is bad for me. “Not good for dogs,” he says, while eating it himself. Interesting logic. But ever since I haven’t been able to swim, he’s been making an exception. I think he feels sorry for me and my cone of shame.

Which makes me wonder…When I finally get back to the lake and resume my highly important aquatic duties… will the crunchy worms disappear? I sure hope not because recovery is hard, but orange crunchy worms make it lots better.

Jim McCoy