Up to now, I had thought Mike was doing a pretty good job for me. I mean, nobody has stopped me in Petco asking for an autograph, but strangers still stop us and tell Mike and me how cute I am. And certainly through my blog, Mike has established me on a higher recognition plane than any other wirehair dachshund my age, at least the ones I know about. I’ve had videos on the Visi-Ball site, for crying out loud. Think Frank and Stanley have built that much of a literary platform?
But I’ve got to reconsider my assessment of Mike’s worth in career-building after finding out that Kiki–that tiny Havanese my friend Lynn takes me to play with, has made her network TV debut. The nerve of her! (Kiki, not Lynn; I can’t imagine for an instant that Lynn had anything directly to do with my snub or Kiki’s good fortune.)
I refuse to hold it against Kiki, though. After all, she’s not nearly as cute as I am; she’s just got a better agent.
I’m blaming Mike. And unless he can get himself back on my good side, he’s toast. And if in the end I decide to let him stay on as my chauffeur, autobiographer and personal assistant, he’s gonna owe me, big time.
Come to think of it, there’s no way I’m letting Kiki get away with this, either. The next time I see her, I’m going to have to remind her who’s the boss.