Open Letter to Dogs
Dear Dogs,
Please, and I'm fairly certain that I am not the only one requesting this, but please, for the love of everything good and pure, STOP ROLLING IN DEAD THINGS.
I know it's fun. There really is no other sensation like rotting carrion smeared all over your back, but there is a reason this activity isn't replacing hot stone massage in spas. And that would be the stench.
While my sinuses generally keep most smells from ever reaching my brain, moist rodent death is not one that it blocks. Ever. And while that might make a great name for an Emo perfume or a country music band, it is not something that one generously wafts towards their faces to experience more of. Freshly baked bread and apple pie will never be bumped out of the top two aromas by unspecified-length-of-time decomposing sparrow.
And, if you simply can't resist a quick tumble in the furry cat toy graveyard, whatever you do, please don't also somehow manage to entangle the mushy, dripping carcass permanently into your neck fur, so that it accompanies you back into the house. It required tightening every muscle fiber in my face, throat and torso to restrain my recently ingested gyro from splashing onto the floor last night. With fries. And a beer. And while I wasn't overly impressed by the quality of the gyro, it was still tasty and yet I'd prefer to never taste, nor see it, ever again.
Although in retrospect, maybe that was your diabolical plan all along. Nah. That can't possibly have been thought-out. When I look into your big, brown, clueless eyes, I swear I can see the back of your skull. But... now that I think of it... I wouldn't put it past the cats to devise such a devious plot. Clever. Kill the shrew specifically to watch that annoying dog-thing swiftly rushed, arms length, to the tub with heavy-duty, rubber gloves (and dry heaves) for an impromptu shower. Note from author: I did not possess the stomach fortitude necessary to tackle this monumental task. All praise for this harrowing feat needs to be directed at my wife. I could only manage to sit on the sideline, hand over mouth, suppressing gags.
Or maybe you just really like seeing us run around panicked during Parks and Recreation.
Whatever.
In closing: bad dog.
Signed Everyone
Please, and I'm fairly certain that I am not the only one requesting this, but please, for the love of everything good and pure, STOP ROLLING IN DEAD THINGS.
I know it's fun. There really is no other sensation like rotting carrion smeared all over your back, but there is a reason this activity isn't replacing hot stone massage in spas. And that would be the stench.
While my sinuses generally keep most smells from ever reaching my brain, moist rodent death is not one that it blocks. Ever. And while that might make a great name for an Emo perfume or a country music band, it is not something that one generously wafts towards their faces to experience more of. Freshly baked bread and apple pie will never be bumped out of the top two aromas by unspecified-length-of-time decomposing sparrow.
And, if you simply can't resist a quick tumble in the furry cat toy graveyard, whatever you do, please don't also somehow manage to entangle the mushy, dripping carcass permanently into your neck fur, so that it accompanies you back into the house. It required tightening every muscle fiber in my face, throat and torso to restrain my recently ingested gyro from splashing onto the floor last night. With fries. And a beer. And while I wasn't overly impressed by the quality of the gyro, it was still tasty and yet I'd prefer to never taste, nor see it, ever again.
Although in retrospect, maybe that was your diabolical plan all along. Nah. That can't possibly have been thought-out. When I look into your big, brown, clueless eyes, I swear I can see the back of your skull. But... now that I think of it... I wouldn't put it past the cats to devise such a devious plot. Clever. Kill the shrew specifically to watch that annoying dog-thing swiftly rushed, arms length, to the tub with heavy-duty, rubber gloves (and dry heaves) for an impromptu shower. Note from author: I did not possess the stomach fortitude necessary to tackle this monumental task. All praise for this harrowing feat needs to be directed at my wife. I could only manage to sit on the sideline, hand over mouth, suppressing gags.
Or maybe you just really like seeing us run around panicked during Parks and Recreation.
Whatever.
In closing: bad dog.
Signed Everyone
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