Dear Jamie,
I know it seems like I’m being a little informal, but I think we can both agree the term “master” is no longer appropriate since I peed in your mouth. (But we’ll get to that later.)
I’m writing you because I feel like we’ve grown distant lately, and I wanted to see if there was some way we could rectify it.
I know you have two little babies now that take up most of your attention, but I wanted to remind you that I’m your dog. My name is Max, and I was here long before those two maniacs joined our clan. Remember me? That crazy puggle that your lovely wife fell in love with at the pet store?
I know I was way cuter then, and maybe I’ve let myself go a little, but, let’s remember that I’m 11 now. That’s 77 years old to you, buddy. So, how about showing me the respect I deserve?
Look, I get it. I see that you and Kate are hanging on by a thread. I might be sleeping on the kitchen floor, but I can hear you guys up all night and I see you making those bottles at all hours. Those kids are a handful.
The older one, Hannah, keeps trying to ride me. She knows I’m not a pony, right?
And honestly, I can’t even imagine having puppies. But, that’s mainly because you neutered me when I, myself was a puppy. Yeah, don’t think I’ve forgotten about that…
Anyway, the reason for this letter is to let you know that I’m still an official part of this family, and I would like to be included more often. I know I have a problem with food, and that’s something I’m working on. It’s just tough because those kids are down at my level and covered with food. It’s like an alcoholic living in a liquor store.
I will try harder not to eat their food, but this business of relegating me to the backyard for most of the day is unacceptable. God forbid I figure out how to open doorknobs, then I assure you, this will change.
And when you tell Kate that you want to drop me off in the canyon to go live with the coyotes, well, that hurts my feelings. And do you have to do it right in front of me? I might be old, but I can still hear.
Remember the old days? When we first met? Those were good times. By the time you came into the picture, I had already known Kate for three years. Some guy she dated bought me for her, thinking that I would be the glue that would keep them together. That’s not how dogs work. She dumped him and kept me. After he got the boot, it was magic. She and I slept together in her five-story walk up in the East Village of New York.
We were inseparable. We were both in our twenties (I was 3), we were young, and enjoying everything New York had to offer. Tons of trash to pick through and fire hydrants to pee on.
And then you came along. I knew she liked you so I welcomed you into our world. You and I would go to the park every day, you taught me how to roll over and fetch, and you liberally doled out treats (Boy, how that has changed). It was the perfect threesome: you, me, and Kate.
I remember one night, she asked me if I thought you were the one. I barked “yes” repeatedly because I thought you would take great care of us. And you did.
You guys got engaged and you brought me across country to Los Angeles, where I would live in a real home with a backyard. Sure, I didn’t behave that well on the plane ride, but you sit in a locked crate in a baggage hold on a hot runway at JFK airport for a few hours and see how well you do. That was a rough day for all of us.
And that brings us to the famous “urine in the mouth incident.” I know you had been watching the Dog Whisperer and he told you to assert your power to establish your place in the pack, but when you flipped me upside down and yelled at me, I got scared. The rest was pure physics! And to insinuate that I could aim that thing is giving me way too much credit. I barked I was sorry, and that’s all that can be done about it. If you want, you can pee in my mouth, but as you’ve seen, I’ll eat cat poop, so I’m not sure what would be accomplished there.
Look, I know you’re a father of two now, but please try to include me a little bit more. That’s all I’m asking. Thanks for the chat.
Sincerely yours,
Max the Puggle
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