Good evening ladies and gentlemen,
This is Basil*, reporting for the first time from what appears to be my new residence in the Northrup neighborhood of Minneapolis. For those of you whom I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting, I am a 17 month old ex-racing greyhound. I weigh approximately 80 pounds, and have a tan coat. For some reason, I am often mistaken for a deer.
I write this from the comfort of a luxurious pillowed bed, which undoubtedly the two saps who serve me purchased for an exorbitant sum. These two attendants, one male and one female, have been incessantly pestering me the past few days, patting my (up to that point) perfectly coiffed head, heavily enunciating "good dog" as if I had no concept of the English language, and needlessly shuffling me up and down staircases.
Despite these rather odd behaviors, they seem nice enough, and in any event, I appear to have already convinced them of my essential role as the emotional "glue" of this unit. Indeed, I recall hearing the female (Kathryn? Katie? Kate?) remark earlier tonight that she didn't recall what the dwelling had ever been like prior to my arrival. Success.
Then again, success should be no surprise. I am, after all, long and athletic, with a perfectly inquisitive mind and a knack for knowing exactly when to throw on the charm. Certainly, I grew up at the racetrack with the rest of the greyhounds, but unlike my less sophisticated brethren, I was not as easily swayed by the lure of the chase. The joke's on you suckers - you're never going to catch that furry squirrel. You know why? Because it's fake.
So, in lieu of spending my days in pursuit of such a pointless endeavor, I removed myself from the racetrack, and soon thereafter, by way of a hotel in Inver Grove Heights (enjoyed the accommodations, but truly, a bit overbooked), I found myself in delightful south Minneapolis. As I mentioned previously, I am disinclined to climb so many stairs, but I am begrudgingly doing so anyways. It is not so enjoyable to have all 80 pounds of oneself be hoisted upwards.
Unlike my new human friends, who are constantly cooing and fawning over my every move, I do not share their need to constantly shower attention. Quite to the contrary, I am rather content to simply spend my hours resting, eating, and working on my memoirs. I oft take my intellectual pursuits outdoors, and I have greatly enjoyed exploring the wilderness which, I am told, is called in these parts "the backyard." Amongst my other many hobbies are investigating how far I may fling food and water from my dinner area, stretching in various yogic poses, and watching documentaries on TV.
Although the human companions are at times somewhat overbearing, I generally hold them in high regard. Not so for the feline who also inhabits this dwelling. The feline has been nothing but rude, and it shocks my senses that such disregard for manners is tolerated. The male human (Erik? Aaron?) appears to share my distaste, so that heartens me somewhat.
All in all, I am happy, and feel as if this will be a good locale for me to live. There are plenty of places to stroll, and there is quite a nice bike shop just around the corner. If all goes according to plan, I will also very soon convince my two humans that the crude steel crate is really not a suitable accommodation for me during the daytime hours. But, for the time being, I can put up with it. As you can likely tell, I am patient.
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Basil
*The correct pronunciation of Basil rhymes with "razzle dazzle" (should be easy for you Anglophiles). NOT as in the delightful herb.
