So J tells me he’s too busy to take me to the T-Bell to eat/roll in yesterday’s mud, but then he somehow has enough time (and the gall) to tie a blue rubber ghost to my neck and watch as it chases me around the house? Total bullshit. I don’t care if he thinks “these three particular photos are 10X better than all the photos taken during Beth’s birthday party photo scavenger hunt, combined,” and I also don’t care that he “feels terrible he missed it.”
All I care about is escaping from this ghost. And eating mud. And then, if given the opportunity, rolling in the remaining mud that I did not eat.
So last week I climbed inside the internet and dragged the Metal Crate of Endless Sorrow* towards Craigslist. Terrible mistake.
Not the trying-to-get-rid-of-it part (that wiry monstrosity is the opposite of dreams where I lope joyfully through thickets of tall grass), but the part where I foolishly left my contact information inside the thing.
“Is the crate made of steel?” I have no idea. It’s metal? I can’t bite through it?
“Is it absolutely unused?” J wrestled me into it once. Then I yelped rape for five minutes and he never tried again.
“We may be interested, but we’re not getting our puppy from the breeder until September. Could you wait until then and then we can bring her to try it?”
Try it? Try it? Listen. It’s a crate. It’s made of metal. It’s unused. It’s going for a third of what Ms. P paid for it in the store. All this was covered in the post. Your inbred designer cot-death pre-order pup is going to hate it, because it’s constructed of six interlaced walls of unbreakableness and isn’t a satisfying replacement for the soft mothering nuzzles of the puppy farm sex slave that whelped her.
So no. J isn’t going to hold onto it until September. And you can’t try it. But you know what you can try? Barking off.
*Note: Will trade crate for treats. Any treats.
Listen. I get it. You want to make sure you never get too far away from me. I wouldn’t want to be far away from me, either. But you have to try to understand where I’m coming from.
When you tie your sick hairless paw to my neck, I can’t hunt tree rats with any respectable amount of success, I can’t properly scavenge discarded pizza crusts, I can’t dash blindly into traffic when a glimpse of tree rat or crust enlivens my eyes… this blue bond, this unshakable rope, this taut stretch of anti-treat? It’s not keeping us together, J. It’s driving us apart.
I don’t know why J keeps fighting it. Drag that square cluster of wire spikes across your own hide, jerk! My fur has a natural centre-part, and no amount of Lionel torture is going to change that. TRUST.
It’s especially galling because this shit works for me! I wear the two-layer tangle like a European-cut shirt. You think Justin Bieber’s owner is trying to mess with his comb-forward vibe? You think Robert Pattinson’s trainer is trying to pick the burrs from his matted head-coat?
Even if there was something that could be done about my scene, I’ve been on adult kibble for over a year now – shouldn’t I be able to make my own doggy style choices?