Saturday, March 19, 2016

Dear Dog of Destruction by Stuart R. West

(A personal letter to my dog, but everyone's welcome to read):

Zak, what did I ever do to you to fill you with so much rage? Didn't my wife snatch you from one of her students who found you pillaging in their trash? Didn't we take you into our house and offer you food, love and shelter? Haven't we set you up with a heated doggy pillow? So why do you repay us with such a disdain for our furniture?
Okay, you're not allowed on the sofas. I know that upsets you. I'm only allowed on them after a shower. Stuff happens. But you don't have human rights. You gotta stop ripping up the sofa when the mailman comes. Yes, he brings bills and fliers about hair removal. But you can't know that. Even if you did understand "humanese," it's still not a reason to wreck the house. (Let me rip up the sofa when I see the bills.)

One time you were so angry at the mailman, you put your paw through a glass picture frame. Who was there to rush you to the doggy doctor, terrified at the sight of all the blood? And who had to put up with the questions and nervous looks as to why I had blood stains all over the back seat of my car? I was nearly branded a serial killer, thanks to you, my furious, furry friend. But I've stayed with you through thick and tics.

You can be fun sometimes. Sweet, actually. It's a shame you don't like buses, joggers, motorcycles, trucks, trash men, door-ringing politicians (that one I agree with), the ice cream truck, and of course, mailmen. Everyone has their peculiarities. Other than that, you're a wonderful creature. Sort of.

Frankly, I'm at a loss why we humans put up with your furry kind at times. But I'm onto you. Took a while, though. When I try and load you into my car to go to your weekly doggy day care (I know, I know), you feign an inability to jump into my vehicle. You insist I lift all of your sixty-five pounds. Very stubborn. Huh. Of course, you have absolutely no problem jumping into my wife's car, do you? When my wife told me you were playing me, I grew furious!

I realize you see my wife (even my daughter) as your pack-masters. But c'mon! I'm the one who feeds you, walks you, hangs with you more than they do! Alas, I am but your play-pal. Sigh.

Why, in your honor, Zak, I even created a character in my thriller series, Killers Incorporated, who loves dogs. Sure, he's a sociopathic, hot-headed serial killer. But he will see no harm done to dogs. Can't be all that bad, right?

But here's the bottom line, Zak. Every time I get angry with you, I holler, rant and rave. Then I look into your golden eyes and melt. You had me at the facial licking.

P.S., chocolate's not good for you. It's like toxic lima beans. Only deadlier. One would think you'd get a clue by now.

Your play-pal,