I don’t have any pictures of you on my computer that are any earlier than this one, when you were 10, or maybe nine, and I’m too lazy to scan your puppy pics, as You-Tube viral adorable as they are. A frenetic sesh of Rolleyball is about to take place, and I’m facing you with your tennis ball, ready to try and roll it in the goal. Hey, there’s Pink Pig and my old Reeboks in the background!
Did we just get back from the groomer? You look so damn fluffy. If we did, it was a rare occasion because the groomer charges a lot because of your thick undercoat–most of which ends up on the carpet, anyway. I obviously took off that stupid blue bow she’d tie on your collar. Sometimes it had that goofy bone pattern on it. I know you liked it more than I did, but trust me, it was not flattering.
Someone is hungry, I see. Starving. Or as you would say in the voice I gave you when you were a pup: “Starf-ing” I can see though you so easily. We both know that that your “cute doggie calendar face” means one thing. No, not that you love me more than anything in the world. You think I’m some naive house guest who buys into that manipulative crap? No, you just ate your dinner, had two guilt snacks and now you want more.
Don’t we look feisty here? Oh, it’s not you but your evil shadow? Well that’s good to know because for a minute there I thought you just assaulted me with a few Asshole Barks. The kind you use where you get pissed off at me and life and everything and everyone just because. You can’t even blame it on your period because that shit ended when you got spayed at 6 months old.
Yes, I admit it. When you sleep with your ball it looks so damn cute i can’t stand it and yes I get up and get you a snack. For absolutely nothing else but being cute. I wish I had a deal like that.