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Ah, yes, Voodoo. The fluffiest good boy (when his coat isn’t clipped short), the bane of my existence. At least, that’s what anyone witnessing our daily “interactions” might think. Here’s a glimpse into the chaotic ballet of our lives:

I’m mid sentence, deeply engrossed in a conversation, when a wet nose slams onto my knee. “Sit,” the hairy despot growls. (Okay, maybe not growls, but a “woof” definitely doesn’t scream manners.) Do I dare defy him? Of course not! I scramble to obey, mid word, looking like a fool flailing for the nearest chair.

Next, my stomach growls, a symphony of hunger most would find inconvenient. Voodoo, however, interprets it as a royal decree. With a triumphant wag, he disappears, only to reappear moments later with a slightly crushed snack cake (because apparently, according to His Majesty, that’s the only acceptable midday snack). Do I protest? Heavens, no! I devour it with the fervor of a starving peasant, even though secretly, I didn’t want to eat.

I’m in the middle of a project I haven’t looked up from in hours and suddenly, I find The King in my way, sometimes even laying on top of me so I can’t continue, which makes me stop immediately and pack up my project.

But wait, there’s more! A playful nudge turns into a full blown snout attack, launching me onto the couch. Do I retaliate? Perish the thought! Instead, I shower him with affection, showering him with kisses and praises for his…enthusiasm?

And sometimes, the roles get even more confusing. I might be halfway out the door, key in hand, ready to conquer the day, when Voodoo suddenly plants his furry rump firmly in the doorway. Is this a power play? An act of rebellion? Fear not, dear reader, it’s merely His Royal Cuteness expressing his disapproval. Do I argue? Not a chance! I either reschedule my plans or, if the look in his eyes is particularly serious and I absolutely have to go, I grab his leash with a resigned sigh.

(Confused yet? Good.)

Now, let’s rewind a bit. See, Voodoo isn’t actually a tyrannical canine overlord. He’s my service dog, and that seemingly chaotic ballet? It’s actually a beautifully orchestrated symphony of teamwork and survival.

The “sit” command? It’s actually a medical alert for when my blood pressure drops and I’m about to faint.

The smashed snack cake delivery? A lifesaver when my blood sugar plummets and I’m too weak to go get food.

Interrupting my productivity? I’m pushing myself too hard and my fibromyalgia is going to make me pay for it.

The “playful” nudges? Often a desperate attempt to ground me when I’m lost in a dissociation or flashback, a gentle but ever present reminder to come back to the present.

And the door blocking shenanigans? Well, let’s just say Voodoo has an impressive ability to sense a flare up before even I do, and he’s not above a little “civil disobedience” to prevent me from pushing myself too hard.

Sure, I trained him for some of these tasks, but honestly, the brilliant dog figured out most of them on his own. He saw the gaps in my training plan and decided, “Nope, this human needs more supervision.” And who am I to argue with a furry lifeguard who can tell when I’m about to pass out or who hands me things I’ve dropped?

(Okay, maybe I do let him get away with a little murder by chew toy sometimes, but he’s not a big chewer.)

So, the next time you see Voodoo “bossing me around,” remember, it’s not a power struggle. It’s a testament to the incredible bond we share, a partnership forged in necessity and overflowing with love. He’s not a tyrant, he’s my lifeline. And sometimes, a dog’s gotta do what a dog’s gotta do, even if it means occasionally overruling his human’s bad decisions – all in the name of keeping his favorite person safe and sane.


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