(I was rummaging through Brady and Holly’s house, and I found some kind of flier in one of their drawers. It reads as such)
Dear compatriots,
In all of Shakespearian tragedy, there is no ending so bitter as ours. No epic poetry of the Greeks can possibly match our sorrows. Many of you know my name, but many more know my M.O.: I’m a strong proponent of licking faces, sitting on feet, and barking at strangers who come to the door; I’ve also been accused of being a “rolling in things” enthusiast, which I cannot in good conscience deny. I am Boomer, and I used to be king of all the world. Lately, however, a strange series of events has doomed me to a fate unimaginable, and I can only conclude that many more of my kind, whom I now address, are suffering as I am. This is a clarion call to all of you: we cannot endure our lot any longer!
I remember the early days so fondly. Mommy and daddy, whom I have sometimes heard referred to by the bizarre monickers of “Holly” and “Brady,” lived their whole lives around me. I sat in laps, I slept in beds, I lounged on couches. Scraps of dinner mysteriously found their way to me over and over. Bad behavior was hardly punished, and I licked more faces than you could ever imagine. Sure, the houses were smaller, but I roamed them like landed gentry, wanting for nothing.
Then, one awful day, mommy and daddy brought home some kind of screaming, crying…thing. I can’t even describe it, it looked like a shaved groundhog. This little pink monster was totally immobile, extremely loud, and unable to be contented, particularly in the dead of the night, so I petitioned quite earnestly for its removal, but my pleas went strangely ignored. Mommy began spending all of her time with this tiny horror, and daddy talked to it with a tone of voice that I was sure was reserved for me. I noticed that my 4 o’clock belly rub was routinely cancelled, the length of my daily constitutional was noticeably truncated, and no one seemed to ask me my favorite rhetorical questions anymore, like “Who’s a good dog?” and “Do you want a treat?” Suddenly, I had a smelly old “doggy bed” to sleep on. Suddenly, the scraps from dinner stopped coming.
Slowly, painfully, I began to realize that mommy and daddy had always been perpetrating a hypocritical double-standard on my behavior, and the new presence in my house was a harbinger who bore on its wings the awful truth of my situation. This little bald menace could wail his lungs out for ten straight minutes and receive a pat on the back in return, but if I let out one little “woof,” I never saw the living room again. And even though he too was not permitted to dine on the ambrosia-scented delicacies that daddy and mommy eat, I noticed that his food was a little more varied than my steady diet of dark-brown, rock-hard ovals and day-old, tepid water.
Things just kept growing more bizarre. One rainy night, I awoke from a delicious dream about licking faces with a start, and as I wandered down the hall to lap at my water bowl, I noticed an odd sound coming from the “baby room” (whatever that is). I trotted in to investigate, and discovered the foulest thing I could have ever imagined: mommy stood over that strange little intruder, wiping his bottom with a wet cloth, congratulating him for a pile of brown stuff he had left on the table. I knew immediately what it was: poop! He pooped indoors, and mommy wasn’t even mad about it! He pooped all over himself, and then he got to sit in her lap for an hour and a half. Now I’m a fair-minded animal, so I made a mental note concerning this event. The next day, I trotted in front of mommy as she sat watching television on the couch and relieved myself in a similar fashion, but her reaction was decidedly not the smiling approval I had envisioned. I don’t want to get into the details, but I spent a lot of time in the garage after that, trying to figure out how this new addition to our family managed to make excrement an argument in his favor.
My torment was unending, and just when I thought I had adjusted to one of those little gremlins, a second appeared! Where were they finding these tiny animals? Whenever I tried to bring something home from outside, I got called a “bad dog,” so mommy and daddy’s new habit of adopting hairless weasels was extremely perplexing. I don’t even want to tell you what kind of cackling, hair-pulling, tongue-grabbing demons these things become after a few years of growth. Some of you may already know, and I can offer only a sad face-lick of sympathy.
So why do I bark now, after all these years of silence? Because there’s a third one that just arrived, and my deepest fears are now confirmed. Don’t you see what this means? Mommy and daddy will never stop finding these things; every two years, another wailing, pink leprechaun is going to be ushered unceremoniously into my turf, until there’s dozens of them, all over the place. Someone has to do something. I should have listened to Britt, my old mentor, when he warned me about these “children,” as I’ve heard them called. He said: “Woof woof bark bark growl woof woof,” which translated is, “Don’t abide those tiny little people. I like to run into them and knock them over. That’ll show them who’s boss.”
He was right then, but I didn’t listen. I’m listening now, I’ve got my ears perked up. Someone, anyone, if you can read this, find whoever manufactures or grows these horrible dwarfs and stop them! I don’t know what twisted purpose they were first meant for, but they are horribly broken. They don’t even do anything, they just launch tears out of one end and…something much worse out the other. Their strange power over daddy and mommy threatens to undo the fabric of the very world we dogs cherish. We have fought long and hard to be “man’s best friend,” and we have gone unquestioned for centuries. This new menace is going to ruin everything unless we put our paws down NOW. So desperate are these times, we will even accept cats in our coalition.
We must act.
Woof
-Boomer
hahaha… great entry