Do I Look Like a Mr. Chewy?

Dear Diary,

I have my undies in a twist. Oh, yes, I know what you’re thinking. I don’t wear undies. But if I did…well, suffice it to say, I’m peeved with Cook.

In your humble opinion, do I look like a Mr. Chewy to you?

For, ever since she discovered a new website where she can buy pet food, snacks, and all the other accouterments which dogs and cats crave, she’s taken to calling me by the site’s name. And, all I can say is, I won’t have it!

After all, I’m a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, and I descend from royalty. I am Henry, master of this most humble abode. And yet, Cook insists on calling me, ahem,

“Mr. Chewy”

Yes, that’s right. Mr. Chewy!!

In my estimation, Cook has gone bonkers. Yet, I am helpless when she says,

“Mr. Chewy, it’s dinner time!”

“Oh, Mr. Chewy? Are you ready for your constitutional?”

“My, my, Mr. Chewy, looks like you could use a bath.”

When she calls me Mr. Chewy, I look at her with mock disdain or pretend she’s caught me in a yawn. But, if truth be told, I find it rather hard to resist, for I just adore the food, the snacks and all the lovely things she’s procuring from the Mr. Chewy website—all to make my life more pleasant—at least, pleasant enough until I can make it back to my birthright, my England.

Frankly, I have never seen Cook so happy. Though, me thinks, the woman doth protests too much–or did, before she discovered the ease of having my 15-pound bags of dry food delivered right to our door.

Now, she’s utterly jubilant!  The prices are reasonable, she says, and the shipping is free when she spends $49 or more.

Ho hum, I say.

Makes her job easier, she says, as she rarely has time to drive to the pet store, make her purchase and trudge home with the loot. Saves money on gas, too, she adds, as if I give a hoot about gas–whatever that is.

Which is why I say, “Since when, Cook, have I been keen on making your job easier?”

If anything, she is here to serve me, and that’s why I pay her the big bucks!

Note to self: Find out exactly how much I pay her. Perhaps my valet can answer that? What? I don’t pay her at all? Oh, bother!

She’s even taken to liking Mr. Chewy on Facebook, all because they post pictures of what she calls “adorable” pets. I say, I defy her to find one as handsome as me.

What’s a Cavalier to do about this, anyway?? Count the days, I suppose.

Yes, while Cook enjoys her new find, I continue to count the days, and Diary, it is Day 1,780. Which has me stricken to no end.

Why? Because, after all this time, I have yet to take my rightful place by the throne. I just know that my queen expects me to overcome this barrier, otherwise known as America, and make my way in time for her Highness’ Diamond Jubilee. It just isn’t fair that I have been unable to secure my passage. I asked Cook, what is the holdup, and she shrugged and threw her hands  in the air, muttering something to the effect,

“Why, Mr. Chewy, I know not what you mean!”

Which I can only conclude to mean that she is as baffled as I, that I have yet to find my way home. Each night, I look at the moon–the inconstant moon!–and imagine the Queen is looking at it, too, whilst thinking about me.  Alas, I pray all is not lost.

Perhaps if I go to mrchewy.com myself, I’ll find the solution to my most pressing dilemma. After all, I know that site has everything a dog of discriminating taste could possibly want!

Until next time, Diary.  I must go post-haste, for I hear a truck rounding the bend!

A Word from Cook:  Henry really is pleased that I am enjoying the convenience of shopping for him at the Mr. Chewy site and Mr. Chewy, himself, has compensated Henry handsomely, with bags of delicious dog food. But even such generous gifts cannot influence royalty. Noblesse oblige, and all that. Therefore, Henry’s opinions are entirely, ahem, his own.