Let me tell you something that short dogs will never understand: being big is a lifestyle.When I stretch my 176-pound frame across the floor and claim 80% of the furniture, I’m not being greedy—I’m simply occupying the space I deserve. The small dogs can have the tiny dog beds. I require a loveseat entirely to myself.
The view from up here is magnificent. I can see over countertops, which means I witness far too many human snacks being prepared that never make their way to my face. This is cruelty. I have made my feelings known through persistent eye contact, and still, the cookies remain ungiven. The injustice is overwhelming.
Everything is either too small or at the perfect height for me to rest my chin. Coffee tables? Armrests? My own personal headrests. My human has stopped arguing about it. Strangers at the park clutch their tiny dogs and whisper nervously as I approach. I am simply walking! Slowly! I would never hurt a fly. But I understand the impulse—my paw alone is the size of a small cat. When I sneeze, the floor shakes. When I wag, coffee tables flee.
The best part? No one messes with my human. Ever. Predators glance at my 176-pound frame and reconsider their entire life choices. This is protection. This is love.
Being giant is exhausting. Mostly because everything is a nap. But someone has to occupy all this space.