I’m five years old and I weigh approximately 175 pounds, but I still consider myself a dainty small dog. Very delicate. Elegant.
My human says I have “size confusion,” but I call it “optimism.”
Every morning, I attempt to climb onto my human’s lap for morning cuddles. The chair is not built for this. I am not built for this. We both know this. But love conquers all, and also structural engineering. Usually I end up with my human trapped sideways, one leg going numb, wondering how their life became this.
I also have a dog bed specifically designed for dogs under 15 pounds. It’s my favorite. I fit approximately 10% of my body in it. The rest of me spills over like furry dough. My human takes pictures and laughs. I am comfortable. This is fine.
The other day, I saw a squirrel and charged at it with my usual grace and restraint. I destroyed a fence. The squirrel was unharmed and gave me what I can only describe as a disappointed look.
I am large. I am loud. I am clumsy. I am home.