If there’s one question I get asked often, it’s this… “if you have so much to say, why don’t you talk?” Well, Karen, despite the fact that I can ambidextrously maneuver my way around a keyboard faster than you can say asdfghjkl, I just haven’t quite gotten around to taking a paws, opening frickin’ Duolingo, and tippity tapping my way to being able to master the English vernacular and say aloud, “Don’t ask me… I’m a dog.”
If you still don’t get it and am wondering just how one can be literate but unable to speak the words they’re vomiting into the cyber abyss, it’s ok… Not everything has to make sense (with the exception of my inner dinner alarm clock.. that makes complete sense).
And just what exactly am I getting at here? I’m venting; that’s what I’m getting at here. I love you guys to kibbles and bits, but a dog can’t handle everything that’s thrown at him, balls and non-balls.
So in the spirit of not asking me things because I’m a dog, I’m going to list just what things you may not ask me, because well, I’m a dog.
Since the dawn of time, humans have been unaware of a silent understanding amongst canine-kind: that we all know we’re good bois & girls. It was decreed as soon as wolves starting mutating into funny looking couch potato creatures with stubby legs and boopable snoots. So if you could please refrain from asking and instead show us just how good we actually are, then co-existence is not futile.
How does one show their canine compadre that they’re a good wittle pup? Be absolutely obsessed with them. Wear their face on super soft t-shirts, woven photo blanket throws, mugs… Heck, get their dog ears drawn and engraved on freakin’ earrings. Channel your inner fangirl-cries-at-an-American-idol show circa 2008, except the fuzzy Sanjaya you’re crying for is your pup. We are unlike cats after all in that we don’t have a stock of eight extra lives we’re banking on. We have just one and it’s wholly dedicated to you… So pay it forward, minion!
While Wagwellie’s Mojave booties, a paragon of electric blueness hole-punched with kitschy Croc-style dimples, are a wardrobe statement piece rivaling Lenny Kravitz’s GIGANTIC SCARF, they, like most questionably tantalizing trends, are kinda uncomfy. A human slides them on my peets and I metamorphose into an embarrassing uncle who can’t not attempt the moonwalk at every wedding, party, and work event his awkward feet grace.
And so in the spirit of mutual understanding, I propose a compromising gesture: slide some cozy socks onto my paws and call it a day. I’m partial to Shein’s chintzy frog patterned feet covers, but you can go for the utilitarian anti-slip fits if you’re so inclined. Whatever the choice… It’s imperative that they’re sole-less and snugger than that bug who likes to hang out in rugs.
Imagine a prototypical dog: corn chip feets, drool dripping as she shlop shlop shlop’s her water until, suddenly, she realizes it’s tap water and projectile spits it right out. She then barrels her way into the living room to express her discontent to her human when she very ungracefully stumbles right into the coffee table. She’s not only awkward, albeit in an endearing way, but she can’t even take herself outside to do the deed; she needs a human to strap her into a silly harness covered in SHARKS for goodness sakes and walk her to her bathroom spot.
Would such a pampered, aloof being be privy to answering life’s most pressing question, one that even a gazillion philosophers over centuries can’t crack? Ancient alien theorists don’t say yes. Such existential questions are beyond our grasp because well, we don’t have opposable thumbs and so literally everything is ungraspable.
So, what does one do when they’re faced with such a question and only have a dog at their disposal? Well, one obviously looks at their pup and realizes that their dog is the giver of life’s meaning… And isn’t that enough?
If it isn’t, well, just order a book from Amazon, man. The Power of Meaning: Crafting a Life That Matters is a good first pick, Marley and Me coming at a close second, obviously.
In the spirit of time and in consideration of your short human attention spans, I’m simply going to list the rest of the questions you may not ask, Buzzfeed style:
Will you ever get a job and stop freeloading around your human’s house?
Do you ever get tired of your human saying “You’re naked!” when they take your collar off? (Absolutely not.)
Can you please refrain from licking so loudly? Are you ok? (I’m constantly hungry and have a human that insists on strictly feeding me two times a day, no human snacks… I’m never ok.)
May I slip this turtleneck over your head and call you a distinguished gentleman? (Absolutely not. The only shirt I’ll wear is a dog raglan advertising my obsession with licking, human.)
Can you please apply for an official neighborhood watch position rather than going all vigilante and enforcing the law with barking, please?
So next time you’re interviewing me for some high brow Nat Geo feature, please take the above into consideration. It’s only fair since, well, me and my doggy friends give your life meaning.
Keep calm & dog on, frens!