~*~ MiSA's HOME PAGE ~*~

Let me describe my morning to you. I went outside. The sun was on. Not a little on. Fully on. Somebody has left the sun completely on and, as far as I can tell, there is no one in charge of it.

I have since identified one (1) rectangle of shade beneath the slats out back, near the lemon tree. I have claimed it. I will die there if I must, and honestly, at these temperatures, I may.

Inside this house there is a machine that makes cold air. A magnificent machine. The greatest invention of any species. And yet I am out here, in the sun, like some kind of outdoor animal.

If you are reading this and you own a cold-air machine, please know that you are living a life I can only dream of, and also please adopt me.

Every so often my father gets an idea. You can see it arrive in his face. He looks at me — a professional resting animal — and he says the words: "wanna go for a run?"

And I, being a fool, being an optimist, being a dog who hears the word "go" and stops processing the sentence, say YES. And then we are outside. And then we are still outside. And then we are continuing to be outside, at speed, for no reason, with no food at the end of it.

What follows is a photographic record of my collapse. I ask that you view these images in the order presented.

I lay in that grass for what scientists would describe as "a while." A leaf landed on me. I let it. I had nothing left.

✎ Walks: yes. Sniffing, ambling, stopping to fully investigate one specific fence post for six minutes: yes. Running: no. I have said this. I keep saying this.

THIS is a walk. Look at me. Look at my face. Look at the stick.

Nobody threw this stick. Nobody gave me this stick. I located it independently, in the wild, using my own nose and my own excellent judgment, and I carried it for one full mile while my parents said "she's not going to drop that, is she" in the tone people use when they already know the answer.

I wore my pink bandana for this. I want to be clear that I did not choose the bandana, but I have reviewed the photographic evidence and I do think it works.

There has been some confusion in this household regarding the ownership of the couch, and I would like to resolve it permanently, in writing, on the internet, where things are true forever.

The couch is mine.

Mommy and daddy are of course welcome to use the couch at any time that I am not on it. That time does not exist, but the offer is sincere and I think it reflects well on me.

People ask me: Misa, what do you actually do on the couch? And I say: I do the couch. That's the whole job. I have been doing it since I was extremely small and I have gotten very good at it.

Here is real footage of me performing my job. ★ RealPlayer not required ★

A large brown truck comes to my property. A man gets out of it. He carries boxes. Boxes could contain anything — and I do mean anything — and it is my duty to be present, to supervise, and to make my availability extremely clear.

I have done this every single time for years. He has never once brought me a snack. Not one. I keep showing up because I am a professional, but I want it noted publicly that the arrangement is one-sided.