Thoughts of a Purse Dog


Christ, I have to piss. This sucks. Can’t even lick myself. Fuck. Yes, lady, I know I’m cute. Lovely. Want to trade places? You sit your baby-talking ass in this leather cell, and see how you like it. Nope, can’t bring your chardonnay with you. Just you. Oh, you’ll get your head shugga-shugga’d occasionally. You might even see some dried wonder meat if you keep quiet. I need doggy Xanax.

Look, why did you bring me into the restaurant, anyway? The owners don’t want me here. The patrons don’t want me here. Guess what? I don’t want to be here either. Fucking noisy place, and I’m tortured with the constant scent of food I’m not allowed to eat. Hate this joint. I’d rather you leave me in a hot car to contemplate my miserable existence without awful karaoke to drown out my thoughts. At least pour me a bowl of 151 rum.

What idiot told you we dogs like being toted around? Was it some legless twat? Must have been a cat. Fucking cat always messing with me. You know what I like to do? Run around. Shocked, are ya? Try to run in a hammock. Can’t fucking do it, can ya? How about a simple thing like scratching your ass. Can’t do that either. Nope. Just have to sit here in this sock house and hope my lower extremities fall asleep.

Couldn’t you hire a dog-sitter? I just need some water and an occasional squat. Ten minutes would do. The rest of the time I’ll just cruise around the house sniffing things. Maybe chase my tail. Fuck. Can’t do that in here either. In fact, where is my tail? Oh, I’m sitting on it. Wouldn’t know that because I’m fucking numb. God damn it.

So, you got me this fancy vest now. Great, another body tourniquet. What’s this writing? “Service Dog?” Jesus fucking Christ! I’m seven pounds! What service could I provide a hundred-twenty-five pound (I’m being kind) human? You can see and hear just fine. What’s that? I provide psychological benefits? Horse shit. I’m not your shrink. I’m simply here to get you over your failed relationships. I’m someone to love who won’t leave you. You’re taking therapy from me? I pissed on my leg last night, ate some vomit, and barked at a shadow. You’ve hired ME as your life coach? Ass wad.

What’s this now? Oh, I finally get out of this cave. You’re awesome. What? You want me to drink from that bowl outside the door? You first. That water has been sitting there so long, mosquitoes won’t even bathe in it. Look at the green slime ring. Fuck! Some goober Labrador slobbered in there. I’m not drinking it. Nope. Damn, I’m thirsty. I hate you. Fine. *Slurp, slurp, slurp* Yep, tastes like fermented goat semen. How’s your margarita? Lovely.

Back in the bag? Sure, nothing I’d rather do. Swing me around some more. Nah, I won’t get dizzy. Look, there’s another dog lover. Come scratch my chin. Ahhh. Thanks, mate. Now, fuck off! Don’t touch my nose. God damn it. How about a little behind-the-ear work instead? Much better. Can’t reach there because my front paws are pinned. Yep. My nails have curled and are now growing into my palm. Not at all uncomfortable.

Finally, we’re home. Someone, please invent doggie suicide. Call it end-of-life therapy. Whatever. I’m so giddy, I want to crawl into the microwave and press “Start.” I’ll just curl up here and dream of a life less confined.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.