Saturday, November 5, 2011

The Dog That Was A Jerk

*THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. YOU MAY LAUGH, YOU MAY CRY. I KNOW I CRIED WHEN I WROTE IT.*

The Dog That Was A Jerk

Buddy was a motherfucker.

He wasn't a bad dog,

or a mean dog;

he was just a jerk.

He was the kind of dog that would watch you while you were eating a sandwich,

and if you looked away, he would take a bite of it

Or even just take the whole thing.

Jerk!

He was the kind of dog that could sense when you
really had to use the bathroom,

and run in there right before you

and destroy the whole roll of toilet paper.

Fucking jerk!

The kind of dog that would jump in the bed with you while you were asleep

And poop on the pillow

And wait for you to wake up and find it.

Buddy! I fucking hate that dog!

He wouldn't fetch, no matter how fun you tried to make it look.

He preferred to chew up my favorite shoes.

He did like to watch TV with me, but we could only watch Lifetime, because he ate the remote.

God damn it, Buddy!

He could be a good dog sometimes, but only when he was up to something.

Sometimes, I would prank him back.

Like I would fill his bowl with the kind of food he didn't like, but put a thin layer of his favorite food on top.

He would start eating and be really into it, all happy and shit, then he would hit the cheap food and give me this look like, "you asshole."

And I would laugh.

Sometimes, even though it's gross, I'd eat a milkbone in front of him.

That's when he would start plotting.

I couldn't even trust him outside; he was smart enough to get his collar off and would run crazy around the neighborhood, barking at old ladies.

Buddy, you crazy motherfucker, get back in the yard!

Sometimes, I thought he really wanted to kill me.

He could rearrange the smaller furniture; he would drag the dining room chairs into the hallway at night, and then he would bark so I would get out of bed. I would trip over the chairs; once I broke my arm.

Buddy won that battle.

Sometimes I would wonder if he'd be happier with someone else, or on a farm, or even in dog heaven; but then I would realize that no, he's just a jerk dog, and is living the best life possible for such an asshole.

When he got sick, I didn't really believe him, because he got really social and snuggly. I'd fallen for that before; he'd give kisses and bring toys, and let me scratch his tummy while we watched TV; then I'd open the closet and he would have pissed all over everything.

One day he actually jumped into my lap while I was writing. He put his head on my shoulder, and sighed.

I hugged him back and told him it was okay; even though he was a jerk I loved him.

It was fun having a battle of wits with a dog.

He sighed again and kind of whimpered.

He had never done that before.

We went to the doctor. Buddy didn't chew on the headrests like he always did, so I knew something was really wrong.

The doctor said he was really sick.

I decided to do what had to be done.

The doctor gave Buddy the stuff, and I petted him and he gave me kisses and thumped his tail. I told him he was a good boy, and he smiled, because he knew that wasn't true; he was a jerk dog and he was self-actualized like that.

I started to cry when he closed his eyes.

Then I smelled it.

His last action was to let the stinkiest dog fart I have smelled before or since.

God damn it, Buddy.

Fucking jerk asshole dog. I had him cremated, and buried his ashes in the front yard with my favorite shoes.

I'm gonna miss you, Buddy.

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