Oh no. Not the fake hair again.

I thought we were done with the hair after the Harry Pawter and the Sorcerer’s Stone post. I’m still suffering from PTSD after Muffins mistook the wig for another cat and mounted my melon.

What’s that? A mustache too? Oh no, you don’t. I’m not sucking on that mustache mouthpiece ball. Even if you cover it in peanut butter.

So nutty and yummy. Just show me where to stand, and make this Bark Reynolds pic quick.

I did not ask for this. It was never my life goal to be famous like Sir Charles Barkley, the French Bulldog. If I had my way, I’d be just like Butch, the mutt who lives next door. He enjoys belly rubs, staring at his own reflection, and licking his privates all day.

But no, I was born a Handsome Havanese so you don’t care about my dreams or my dignity. Instead, you make me don a black wig and suit and pretend to be Ringo Starr from The Beagles. Or pose me in front of a computer with advertised coffee claiming I’m at the Pawffice. Or worse, dress me up in a skin-tight leopard dress and squeeze my paws into silhouettes so I can look like Pawsh Spice. I’ll have you know my favorite band is Pearl Jam.

It’s not just the dressing-up and posing that’s intolerable. It’s the prep. Like it might be nice to slop up some meat instead of that Honest Kitchen’s Vegetable Medley every day. I know the organic food keeps my coat shiny, but that garbage tastes like cardboard. Also, the standing appointments for shampoos and blowouts at Vanity Fur are a waste of money. Butch rolls around in puddles, shakes his behind a bit, and dries off in the grass. Add in a lick or two and a sip of some toilet water, and that’s all a dog needs. You should try it.

What’s that you’re showing me? A basket filled with eggs? Oh no, it must be springtime again. Time for another Hoppy Harry Easter post. Except for this year, I’m putting my paw down. No bunny ears. No carrot. And definitely no rainbow fur dye.

And while I’m at it, I beg you, no more yoga pants and down dog poses. Contrary to that stupid post about how I needed to chill out after getting hunted by the pawparazzi, pups like me prefer to chew, chase dead leaves, and relieve ourselves on soft carpets, not play dress-up all day. The yoga pants cut off my circulation, the down dog made me dizzy, and I could give two dog shits about the three-hundred-thousand likes.

How about this for some likes, Stupid Humans? Like the beret you made me wear in front of the fake Eiffel Tower was ridiculous. Like dressing me in a barkini and standing me up on a paddleboard after my so-called Bark-B-Que was petrifying. Like the most humiliating moment of my life was when you stuck me in a tub full of advertised bubble bath, squished my head into a rubber duckie shower cap, and made me lick a pupsicle.

I am a dog.

Oh my God! Have all those Instagram likes caused you to lose your doggone mind? How dare you shove a massive chocolate bunny in front of my snout? One bite of chocolate can kill me!

And how about this, psychopaths: replace the chocolate bunny with some freeze-dried liver, stop using me for dopamine surges, and make money off your own human litter.

What’s that? Of course, I know bunny ears and a carrot in my mouth would make a Handsome Havanese like me look even more irresistible. Do I have to remind you how many followers I have?

Go ahead, I’m not scared. Dip that carrot in peanut butter. Contrary to my past discretions, my brain is stronger than my belly.

Oh gosh. Is this really happening? You’re giving me the peanut butter, beef jerky, and a Bacon Buddy Biscuit for one simple pose? I can’t take it! It’s just too much!

Slide those ears on my head, show me where to stand, and stick that carrot in my piehole. What can I say? I’m bred to please.