Dear Diary:

I spent most of the day today soaking in a dark tank of water.  It wasn’t bad.  The lid opened up a few times and I darted out of the way of those tongs.  I have a good place I go, deep in the corner where the tongs can’t reach.  There are a few other hot dogs who have figured this out, too. So we all squish back there, maybe about four or five of us.  And we wait.

They took Bernie today.

I can’t think about it that much.  Instead, I think of songs.  I sing them in my head.   “Party in the USA” by Miley Cyrus. I know it’s out of context but it’s what gets me through.

Dear Diary:

The concept of time is just not something that I understand.  I might have been down here for half a day, or 400 years, and how would I know?  And you know what, I don’t want to know.  Neither does the person who’s going to buy me, eventually, if things go the way I think they’re gonna go.  It’s best to not talk about these things.  I’ve learned to save my energy for things I can change.

Like learning the backstroke.  It’s actually pretty fun.  Sure I bump into a lot of other dogs, and excuse me, but we’re down here, might as well have some fun.  I don’t see the point being trapped in a dark bin like this and ALSO being grumpy about it.  Life is dark, short, and brutish, and if you don’t believe me then stop for a second and think about where I came from.  Pigs.  Where are those pigs now?  They’re in this skin.  What’s left of them.  So live it up while you can, that’s what I say.

Dear Diary:

Today I narrowly escaped the tongs.  I was asleep when the lid went up and when I woke up there were two prongs hovering over my head.  I just went under the surface and waited, and eventually they took Leila.  She screamed a lot.  And you know what, good riddance.   That dog was an energy vampire if ever I knew one.  Just really negative all the time, always complaining about something.  She could never just appreciate anything, you know,  and who needs that?  So.  I wish her well.  Always have. And now it’s back to the same ol’ same ol’.

Well, it’s not entirely same ‘ol.  I’ve started reading Proust.  Not because I really want to, but because I want to feel like I’m better than everybody else.  Or at least better than what I am.  Which is just a weiner in a skin, dodging the tongs.

I don’t even know how to pronounce Proust.  Is it “proo”?  Like “poo”?  Or is it Proust, like “joust?”  Or like Proost?  Like “roost?”  I can ask these questions because I’m a hot dog.   If I were the guy with the tongs, I would not be allowed to ask that question, and that is why sometimes it’s better to be down here.

Uh oh there’s the lid.  brb—