An Open Letter to My Dog, Who Can’t Even Fucking Read

Dear Miley,

You know I love you.  You’re the best dog I’ve ever had, really.  I tell people that all the time.  But there are a few things you could be doing that would make me love you even more.

You know how you like to lick your paws?  Instead of lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, maybe you just lick, lick, lick, and be done with it?   Just because we’re trying to sleep.

Another thought.  When a stranger walks up and pats your head (which gosh, I agree they shouldn’t do uninvited), maybe don’t pee on the ground.  Don’t get me wrong.  I much prefer your peeing to biting.  But what if instead you just bowed your head sheepishly until they were done?  I can’t tell you how many times a guy has petted me in one uninvited way or another, and I’ve learned not to pee on the floor when that happens. 
OH GOSH, what am I thinking?!?  I should not tell you to shut up and take it. 
#metoo #metoo #metoo x 100.  Okay, could you growl?

The nails.  So, I understand that long nails are all the fashion, but yours aren’t painted and they’re on your feet.  Long toenails.  Not a good look.  On anyone.  And they clickity-clack on the hardwood floors.  Again, we’re sleeping.  Would you mind cutting them back a wee bit?  That’s my job, you say?  What am I your mother? 

And another thing I’d really appreciate — you know how I used to give you your heartworm medicine whenever I started my period, so we were both on a 28-29ish day cycle?  Well see, now I’m not having those periods anymore, so it’s making it hard for me to remember to give you your pill on time.  Would it be too much to ask you to calendar it and remind me?

And speeeeeaking of the heartworm pill, could you just fucking swallow it, instead of eating the cheese, hiding the pill in your cheek, and then spitting it out when you think I’m not looking? I’m kinda on to you, you know, and it’s getting annoying.

Just two more things, promise.

One, the housekeeper comes every week.  Her name is Adelina.  You know her.  Please stop barking and growling at her every week, the entire time she’s here.  She’s not even five feet tall, for gosh sakes.  I promise she won’t hurt you.  Oh, and the mailman too.  He’s the guy who comes by in the 9-10am window, every Monday through Saturday, and stays outside of the house.  His name is Santos, as you will recall.  Please leave the poor man alone.  He’s just doing his job, so he doesn’t need you startling him every. single. fucking. day.

Two, and this is the last thing, I promise.  Stop eating other dogs’ poop.  That’s just sick.  Just stop. Seriously.  Stop.

So that’s really it.  I sure do appreciate your help with these.

Who’s my good girl?  Who’s my good girl?