So, she's a dog

I hate dogs.

Some are better than others, I suppose. (My aunt’s brown porcelain, for example.) But, basically, I hate them all.

I could give lots of reasons. They bite. They bark. They dump everywhere. Their basic philosophy (if it moves, pork it; if it doesn’t, piss on it) stinks. And so do they.

But what really tips it for me is their taste. They just don’t have any. You can kick them. You can starve them. You can even cut off their whatsiz. They still come when you call - and sit there panting like idiots waiting to slobber all over your face.

Dog lovers say they have redeeming features, and I can’t deny that. I know some dog lovers with terrific features. But their dogs you couldn’t redeem for green stamps.

So, I hate dogs.

I also hate kids.

But, hate them or not, I still feed them. I also feed women. And chipmunks.

I guess the point is: women make bad pets. Dogs don’t make terrific wives as a rule, either. It cuts both ways.

Now, if you’re a wiser man than I, you already know this. But I didn’t. I figured it would be nice to have one around the house. Fun to play with. That sort of thing. So, I got one.

Everything went fine at first. She kept house. Made the meals. Entertained my friends. But it didn’t last.

It was my fault. I just hadn’t thought it through far enough. My reasons were fine so far as they went, but they were all one way.

You can’t take a two-way woman down a one-way street.

So, I gave her to some friends who really love women. They take good care of her, and I enjoy her from a distance.

I learned my lesson the hard way, but I learned it well. Don’t have pets if you don’t want the responsibility.

 

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