The Noble Witherspoons

I come from a long line of Witherspoons. Our heritage is quite noble, and our blue Cocker blood has never been tainted by some promiscuous poodle or a hyperactive chihuahua (in spite of the majordomo erroneously insisting in one of his mean-spirited rants that I will age to be a golden labrador retriever). I feel I must clarify that my lineage is in no way linked to one legally blonde Academy Award winning actress, though I have been told the resemblance is uncanny (in part due to having the same stylist and his penchant for bleach).

Sadly, I am the last living Witherspoon and currently have no successor to my throne. This is most likely another reason why I was exiled to this kingdom in the tropics. I suspect there was a conspiracy by the families around Miamishire entwined in greed and deception. They sought to depose me from my throne and instate some vixenish pitbull with a litter of six heirs. I have not the foggiest notion of how long that reign of terror will last for those peninsular people, but I imagine when the inevitable revolution occurs I will be reinstated as King. Though it has crossed my mind that I could be exiled again, and I fear I could follow in Napoleon I of France's footsteps and perish in a second exile. Right now I have learned to accept that I am living my own personal Elba and have learnt not to repeat the mistakes of my fellow vertically-challenged brethren. Though, as he said, it is the cause, and not the death, that makes the martyr.

The Ball

I imagine having a gala in my honour was long overdue. I had been settled in my kingdom for several months now and had yet given the privilege to the local high society to kiss my royal paw. Of course the majordomo took care of all the necessary arrangements from sending out the invitations (to only those who were deemed worthy) to preparing the ballroom. Unfortunately the jester insisted on providing the entertainment. As I have mentioned before, I personally find the jester's humour somewhat tiresome and crass, but I figured the people here had yet to be sufficiently exposed to him before they heckle him out of town (as they most likely did in Miamishire which resulted in my exile). Besides, I imagined it would be quite entertaining to watch him offend the cat-loving Abbess, but to my dismay she did not attend (which makes me wonder if I had already had her imprisoned or beheaded).

The evening of the ball was quite pleasant. The guests arrived unusually punctually and slowly began to fill the courtyard. Oddly enough, I noticed the majority of the guests was composed mainly of men and very few women which makes me question either the social norms of this patriarchical state or the suspicious tastes of my cape-wearing majordomo. I must remember to revisit the guest list because the disproportionate ratio of sexes made the dancing a bit peculiar. From what I recall, I was not exiled to Ancient Greece.

After a couple hours of making the formal introductions to duke so-and-so and lady ga-and-ga (or was she actually a lord?), I grew bored of the trifling conversations that ensued. The jester was making quite the spectacle of himself as he was imbibing the local absinthe quite heavily. I cannot recall if it was his juggling act or his absurd imitation of Queen Anne which forced me to take leave of the festivities and retire to my chambers. All in all, the gala was a success though I imagine in the future I will be forced to placate this testosterone-driven crowd as their lust for merriment might be equal to their lust for war. A king must always think one step ahead of His people.

Dignity and Grace

It was a pleasant Sunday morning for a stroll outside the palace. I summoned my coachman to bring the horses around to the main gates so I could be taken into the town center, el Parque Central (my tongue is slowly learning this pseudo Latin that the people speak here). Of course I choose to go into town without the pomp and circumstance to which I was accustomed in Miamishire. I fear the people are still uneasy with their foreign king, and I would rather not create any further distractions. Besides, going unnoticed allows me to observe my surroundings in their natural order. Once I take note of that which pleases and displeases me, I can make the appropriate changes.

Upon my arrival, I noticed the townspeople were milling about the square, going to and fro between the market and the church. My coach pulled up along side a line of horsedrawn carriages. The coachman avised me that with all the horse and horse manure in the streets, there is talk of putting diapers on these magnificent creatures (I suspect the dreaded Abbess is behind this conspiracy). Of course, I find this absurd (and the image appalling). Imagine the horses of my kingdom attempting to gallop with bloomers affixed to their grand derrieres. Every animal has the right to relieve itself with dignity and grace. I could not think of having the horses, or anyone for that matter, wallow in their own waste until they can be changed. Besides, my kingdom employs many people to clean and wash the streets. I suspect the economy would suffer if these dedicated workers were stripped of their honorable duties.

First Act: The Abolition of Incessant Barking

Despite these recent events, my court tries not to subject me to too much chaos. The process of adaptation is by no means painless, and it does take time to acclimate oneself to a new environment. I have plenty of hours in the day dedicated to reflection. In my meditation, I have assembled a list of priorities that I must set into motion in my new land.

One priority is establishing a more effective means of communication among the dogs of my kingdom. I have noticed that at all hours of the day and night these canines engage in the uncivilised manner of shouting at each other. There is no proper etiquette, no demureness--only constant random incessant barking that, even though they are wretched creatures, are still an embarrassment to my species. I do not need to be exposed to the neighbors' bragging that their bellies are sated, they spied a lurking feline, or they just spawned a litter of eight. The latter is heard often and is the most appalling, but properly spaying and neutering is yet another one of my tasks at hand (if I divulged my plan, you might find my methods barbaric).

Personally I find the art of the blog much more refined, but then of course I would have to find ways censor any remarks that could be construed as derogatory toward my Person (Caninae). Perhaps the most effective manner would be mandatory education--speech and etiquette classes for all dogs of the land. They will be trained to speak, not shout, at a more pleasant decibel. They will learn proper King's English to rid their tongue of vulgarities, and obviously learn new forms of address and verb conjugation in a manner more befitting the respect of their Majesty. Until then, I must suffer the unintelligible rants of the multi-teeted bitch and her seven puppies and one scrawny runt.