My name is Mackie – or Mac or Doodle – although my dad tells me that my real name is McDoogle, after Stockar McDoogle, this huge guy who played football that he knew. When my dad uses McDoogle, I’m in BIG trouble. More on football later.

One day a long, long time ago my dad and his mom – my grandma – came to the house where I was born. Well, my real mom and my brothers and sisters were kinda weird, so when I got the chance I made a break for my new family. I hear that one works every time.

I guess they were looking for someone to take over the operation of their house – kinda become a chief operating officer – so they brought me home to take control. Back then, I was a little bitty ball of fur, though, who piddled on the carpet all the time so I don’t know how much coordinating I really did.

But I outgrew that piddling thing and I took over house operations – when to get up, when to go outside, when to eat and, most importantly, when to go for a ride in the car. Man, I love going for rides in the car with them! They try to make me argue for my ride, but you can always count on them giving in.

Most of the time, my dad and grandma do exactly what I tell them. They’re very obedient for two-leggers. But there’s this football thing. You see, my dad and grandma are something they call “Sooners.” You ought to see them try to watch a football game on television. And they think I get out of control when I want a ride.

Sometimes, they leave me for awhile for this football game. I used to have these nice people come by my house and let me out a few times while they were gone, but my dad tells me I’m gonna have to go to a doggie hotel a few times this fall. Whatever football is, I don’t like it much. Sometimes I go with them, but it always ends up taking them away from me and I don’t like that.

Which brings me to this diabetes thing: Last year I started feeling kinda bad. Didn’t much feel like playing ball with my dad. Needed water ALL the time. Needed to potty ALL the time. So off to the doctor I went, and when I got home my grandma started sticking me with this needle twice a day.

I HATE that, so much so that I use my pillow as something to hide under. But I hafta admit, I feel better as a result. Except for the times when my dad chases me around the yard with a Dixie cup. For some reason, he wants some of my potty. He can be pretty strange at times.

But a few months ago, things got awfully fuzzy. I started bumping into stuff a lot, like my fence, my crate, stuff like that. No big deal, really, because the nose knows, but I could tell from the sadness in my dad’s voice that something was wrong.

So off I went to another doggie hotel, this time after a LONG ride in the car. Dad calls it the “Kansas State University vet hospital” and says it’s the best place around for little guys like myself. Great ride, nice ladies who I made friends with – by the way, those ladies fed me better than my dad does - and the longest nap I can remember. 

Funny thing about that nap. I woke up seeing better than I had been. Heh. That means trouble for my dad – no more shoes left lying around the house, no more socks on the footstool.

I’ll write more later to let you know how things are going with the two-leggers. They require so much work, you know.

Your pal,
Mackie Doodle