Revere Me Mortals

Oh, hello there, dear reader! Winston here, your favorite French bulldog and, if I may be so bold, the unsung hero of this entire operation. Hold onto your hats, because this week has been nothing short of HISTORIC in my glamorous life, and it is my solemn duty to spill all the tea.

As you know, for months, I’ve been campaigning for something truly vital: a statue of me, right here, in the office. You see, my aunties are relentlessly adoring, but I can’t always be geographically present to bask in their admiration. A statue, in my honor, would mean that my presence, though symbolic, remains constant, like a little sunbeam of Winston radiating throughout their workspace. Well, dear reader, prepare yourself for this: they listened.

Yes. It’s finally here. A glorious statue, an artistic triumph, if I do say so myself. They unveiled it with much fanfare, and let me tell you, the artist captured more than just my likeness. This statue exudes Winston-essence: the sass, the audacity, the undeniable charm. They even got my head tilt just right, that patented mix of curiosity and judgment that I’ve perfected over the years. Honestly? Michelangelo could never.

Now, let’s talk about the very important protocols I’ve put in place for the upkeep and reverence of this masterpiece. A work of art like this deserves to be treated with dignity. I sat everyone down (well, more like I stood on the couch and barked insistently) and laid out my expectations.

Firstly, when you pass by, you simply must give the statue a little back rub. It’s the least you can do. But under no circumstances are you to touch its head. The noggin is sacred ground, and any hand that reaches for it will receive one of my most withering side-eyes. Trust me, no one recovers from those.

Secondly, the statue must stay shiny, polished daily with nothing less than a silk rag. None of that microfiber nonsense! A little elbow grease and some love will keep me looking radiant at all times. Imagine someone walking into the office and spotting a dull Winston statue. The scandal! The outrage! The incompetence! Unthinkable.

Thirdly, and this is perhaps the most pivotal of all my demands, the statue must always bask in sunlight. Even on cloudy days, I expect it to have the prime seat near the window where the soft glow of the sun can find its way to me. Why? Because even when I’m not physically there, the spirit of Winston deserves warmth. It’s a simple matter of respect.

Lastly, and maybe this is just a fun little flourish, but occasional offerings at my statue’s feet would be greatly appreciated. I suggest ham, cheese, or peanut butter for starters; small tokens of devotion, really. Think of it as an artistic tradition, like tossing a coin into a wishing fountain, but tastier and infinitely more meaningful.

And there you have it, dear reader, my own perfect statue. It’s already been life-changing. Now, even on days I’m lounging at home, my aunties can still start their morning coffee runs with a proper nod of respect. I’ve managed to achieve something that few others have: leaving a legacy. Some dogs chase sticks. I chase immortality.

And now, dear reader, the world, or at least this office, is a better place. Every head tilt, sigh, and playful romp of mine has led to this moment. I don’t mean to brag, but I thrive at being an icon, whether in flesh or statue form. So, until next week, keep living your best lives and remember: when in doubt, ask yourself, “What would Winston do?” (Hint: polish the statue).

With eternal greatness,

Winston 🐾