So I have a sister now. I’m not quite sure what this means but I’m almost positive that although I’ve been a loving and faithful pet for six years, this is the end of the gravy train for me.
I knew something was up when your flat stomach got bigger and you kept rubbing it for nine months and you kept snapping at the man who lives with us and wears the zipped up fleeces all the time. Then one day—boom. This tiny little human—I call her Blonde Jr. —comes home with you and the world as I knew it changed forever.
It all started when you sent that dumb hat home that Blonde Jr. had apparently been wearing in the hospital. I was supposed to get used to her scent before she even came to live here. Was this weak attempt supposed to make me want to share my pillow in front of the fireplace with her? Not snap at her when she rides me like a pony? I’m not sure. And was my response not crystal clear? Hello, not interested, people, thank you very much. I’ve got butts to sniff; I don’t need some powdery-smelling baby hat. Still, you brought her home anyway. No one ever listens to the dog until you think somebody’s running off with the flat screen TV or the family silver. Only then is my barking rewarded.
The cards were put on the table when you brought her home, though. I eat twice a day. Twice. And I have to practically beg for that. Obviously, I don’t count the bacon, steak, Funyons, granola bars, and other assorted items that Fleece gives me on the DL when you’re not looking. But now even those have gone away.
Blonde Jr. arrives and she gets to eat every three hours. Every three hours! Like clockwork. I mean, are you kidding me with this? The most insulting part is that she eats right from a couple of giant protrusions on your body. She isn’t partitioned off in some far-away corner of the house, eating out of a bowl shaped like a bone. No, she gets to be right next to you, eating from The Source. Had I known about the protrusions and their secret source of food, I would’ve concentrated a lot more on getting to sit in your lap instead of Fleece’s over the years so I could’ve accidentally grazed one of those things and taken a few hits from one of them.
Oh, and nobody humiliates Blonde Jr. when she wants to eat. I noticed you don’t place morsels of food on her nose and make her sit there and wait for the command to eat. She doesn’t have to play dead just to get a goddamned snack. Funny how it works like that, huh? Not funny haha. Funny as in makes me want to chase down the UPS Man and bite off a hunk of his meaty calf. HILARIOUS.
And another thing. I had to learn to go outside to use the bathroom. Blonde Jr.? She goes whenever she freaking wants. In some fluffy sack you tie to her backside. Once again, I have to say, had I known about the possibility of the sack, perhaps I too might’ve liked to have been given that option. But no, I’m sent outside, to relieve myself in full view of friends and neighbors like some idiot commoner of a Dalmatian or some other breed that’s too dumb to know that this is clearly an insult.
Here’s what I’m asking, blonde: throw me a bone, a real effin’ bone!! Help a sister out! It’s the least you can do for the dog that you once lovingly referred to as a genius. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
All the best,
Josie the Dog
