Why would you invite a journalist into your life?

Why did I invite a journalist into my life as a human, when I knew that she could expose me as a household pet, a dog?

I did it for several reasons. One -- I craved publicity like a narcotic. The thought of my name and my photograph carried to tens of thousands of homes and offices in the form of a newspaper article created a sensational pleasure in my heart and stomach that I could almost taste like a filet mignon dinner. And then hundreds of thousands of online viewers would read my words, heed my story, come to appreciate my quirks and contrarian ways. But best of all was the fact that perhaps I could fool a journalist into thinking I really was a human being, not a dog sitting up in a chair with his front paws waving frantically and barking something that sounded like 'yup-yup.' Perhaps this journalist had no moral compass or a diseased imagination, like mine, that would lead her to put words in my muzzle and create an elaborate, untraceable, plausible, backstory for me. I could only hope.

Another reason I did it was from loneliness. I needed someone to love me and take care of me, not on a 'good boy' level, but on a human empathetic level -- the level where my problems become my companion's problems and there are hugs and shoulder rubs and sometimes tears flow and sometimes shared laughter makes you feel like a god. I saw humans treat each other like that, and I wanted in.

And then there was a thorn. Or a cockle burr. Anyway, something sharp and unforgiving was digging into my stubby tail and I needed someone to pull it out for me. I couldn't reach it. I had nightmares it was a giant black bug actually devouring my tail a few bites each day. 

PETA arranged the interview for me. They are mostly animals masquerading as people -- some of them are very good at it; they become very articulate and learn to manipulate shoelaces and such things. But one thing they never do is actually help out a fellow creature like me -- they wouldn't touch my tail with a barge pole. And Boris Johnson, over in Great Britain, is actually a hedgehog that had been left for roadkill a few years back. But I really can't go into details about that kind of thing -- it's not a healthy pursuit, if you know what I mean.

She was gorgeous, my journalist. Her blend of scents reminded me of nipples and snapdragons. She was young and fresh -- and gullible. She actually began interviewing me for real, nodding her head enthusiastically whenever I barked 'yup-yup.' But about ten minutes in she began to look troubled, and her pheromones switched from eager and sexy to doubtful and angry. She was going to expose me as a dog -- or even worse, terminate the interview and not write anything at all about me. I had to try something else to win her confidence and interest back.

So I told her I was actually a transgender cat stuck in a male dog's body who was being forced by white slavers to masquerade as a young man. I don't know how I was able to tell her that exactly, but there was some kind of seconds-only bridge between us, born of deep desperation, that allowed her to pick up on my ridiculous fib. She scribbled furiously, and then texted her editor on her smartphone to ask for column space in the Sunday edition for what she called a 'bombshell.' He texted back okay, and my journalist started taking photos. 

The rest you know about, if you're ever on social media. I've been officially adopted by the last reigning Nawab of Oudh. I'm scheduled to fly out to Lucknow this evening, and Oprah has given me a pair of matching Samsonite chew toys. Before I leave I'm appearing on Ellen DeGeneres to talk, or bark, or meow, about 'being a transgender cat trapped in a dog's body.' Ellen will take the paperclip (for that's what it turned out to be) out of my tail on air at the end of the show. Ratings should go through the roof. 

@EllenBarryNYT