An Open Letter to My Dogs

Dear Molly & Finley,

Do you remember in "The Jerk" when the Chinese-stereotype-man advises Steve Martin, "Mister-- don't call that dog 'Lifesaver.' Call it 'Shithead.'"? There are times when I wish I could name one of you Shithead and the other Fuckface. If it weren't for the fact that we lived in suburbia, I might do it. They wouldn't care in the ghetto. I mean, look at what they call their kids.

(I know-- I'm such a racist-- but let's save that for another post.)

The two of you are really a handful. Finley, just you by yourself, with your near-constant ear infections and your allergies and your propensity to consume large quantities of soy milk and broccoli, you kept us plenty busy enough. We just didn't realize it. I can't believe that your mother and I were so passive and complacent that we thought, "Hey-- you know what we need? Another dog!"

Yeah. Two times the shedding. Two times the shitting. Two times the baggies. Two times the food. And twelve times the ennui.

Walking the two of you together is enough to send me over the edge. Finley, you walk like my great-grandmother-- just minus the diabetic knee-highs and the carpet-like muumuu. Getting you to move it along is hardly worth the effort at all. I understand that you have arthritis and cataracts, and I wish I could apply for SSI for you, but I can't. All I can do is shove Chinese firecrackers up your ass to hope we can complete a walk in under thirty-eight minutes.

Molly, you are goddamned spazztastic. I can't handle you, nor can I fathom you. One walk with you around the block and it's very easy to see why somebody would stuff you in a Moses basket and drop it in the river. That little dance you do on your hind legs resembles ballet on crystal-meth, and, if you weren't doing it to wriggle out of your harness, I might find it charming. You have ADHD. If a leaf falls from a tree, or the wind rustles through the grass, if a neighbor opens his dining room window, if someone shuts a car door, if a praying mantis rubs its raptorial legs together-- you are immediately distracted. And the poop does not exit your behind, and you are not "safe." You are not considered to be "safe" until you have urinated at least once, (twice is preferable), and you have fecefied in the out-of-door realm. Otherwise, you are not to be trusted.

Never. To be trusted. Ever.

I look at normal people with normal dogs and I am sick with envy. How do they do it? How are they not constantly wrapped up in a tangle of leashes as am I? How do they effortlessly swoop down to collect poo when I am constantly struggling against your pulling or your stay-putting, the bag turning upsidedown, spilling shit all over the sidewalk? How is it that other dogs may want to lunge at the feral cats that prowl the environs of our neighborhood, but you two vault towards the felines with all the determination of a Professional Bullriding contestant? You have almost desocketed my arm on numerous occasions just because you think you want to eat cats.

Trust me, you don't want to eat cats. If you ever got close enough to them, they would swipe the shit out of your charming little faces, and really, maybe that's just what you need.

Guys-- I don't know what to say. You're exhausting. Petty, jealous, self-involved. It's like owning two Teen Moms. And I can't imagine that would be terribly amusing-- at least, after a while. Of course I love you, but if you happened one day to score some serious downers, I probably wouldn't complain.

I know there are no solutions here, and I'm sure there are things about me and Mrs. Apron that you wish were different, too. But theyr'e not. And you're not. Just remember to come up on the bed when the temperatures plunge and keep us warm and all will be forgiven.

Unless you pee on our faces, Molly.

Sincerely,
Dad