Found this on the mat the other day, along with an invoice from a neighbourhood cat for typing and proofreading. We may not have adequately prepared the dog for Kitty’s arrival.
Caution: strong language ahead. She’s a rescue dog and a Jack Russell so can be, well, a bitch.
The letter in full:
Butler, scullery maid,
First of all: what the actual blistering holy fuck? Are you kidding me?
We have some problems. As no-one has paid attention at my previous staff meetings, despite my sitting and staring at you at the allocated hour, I haven’t been able to debrief you. (Or give you your annual reviews, which, let me assure you, you’re not going to enjoy.) So this is a written warning.
I can only assume that the weird naked puppy is your idea of a joke. But it’s gone on for five titting months now. I’ve had enough. The interruptions to my walk time, game time, snooze time, sitting on you when I want time and scattering infinite hairs over your lives time are unsustainable.
Not only do you disappear for a few days (although that guy who looked after me gave me more treats than you ever have, do you have his number?), you then return with this blotchy hairless puppy that does nothing but croak and squeal and keep me awake all bastard night long. Yet you never bellow “In your bed!” at it like you do when I prowl around growling in the dark – which I do for your listening pleasure, you godless philistines.
I tried to express my dissatisfaction at the start by weeing on the carpet, the bed, and one secret location that you’ve yet to uncover, every day for two weeks, but you just got upset. I still don’t see why you needed to sob as you mopped it up for the tenth time, or why you curled up in a ball and moaned when I knocked all the drinks off the coffee table a few minutes later. You should recognise constructive criticism and accept it with good grace.
So let me spell it out: the puppy is defective. It still can’t move, there’s no sign of a tail and it can’t communicate properly. I’ve tried to help with this by sitting next to you and howling every single time it ‘cries’, to teach it the proper sounds, but you’ve been most ungrateful. I don’t see how you “losing the will to live” is my fault. Go fetch it, as you always tell me. Maybe it’s behind the sofa, like my bone was that time.
Worse, you are not letting the puppy develop properly. If you don’t let me bite it every time it pulls my ears, how will it learn its position in the pack (which is right smack at the fucking bottom, I might add)? And how is it to stay clean or learn to play and fight if you go all high pitched and lose your shit every time I try to jump on it, lick its face or steal its toys?
I’ll admit that getting to sit in the front of the car now is pretty sweet, and you do seem to care less about stopping me sitting on the sofa, eating your yoghurts or getting into bed in the morning and lying with my head on your pillow. This relaxed attitude is a timely innovation and can stay.
HOWEVER. The music. Those songs about teddy bears, quacking ducks and the one about ‘horsey horsey don’t you stop’? The ones you sing all day? What an absolute clusterfuck. Have you been dropped on your heads or something? And how has it suckered you into wiping its bottom? You never, ever let me clean mine by dragging it along the carpet, but do I detect an aloe-vera softened wipe in my future? No I fucking don’t. This kind of inconsistency drives a dog to madness, or at the very least to attacking a pair of Great Danes. I could have taken them, you know, if you hadn’t dragged me away. Pacifist wankers.
Get it together, staff. I don’t sit silently behind you when you’re changing nappies, waiting to trip you up, for the good of my health. It’s to wake you up to reality: the puppy needs to know its place. It needs to be on a lead, not in a sling. It needs biting and sitting on, not rocking gently. Most of all it should share those lovely squeaky Sophie the giraffe toys. No, I don’t care how special or expensive they are.
Don’t make me write again.
ps./ Say ‘Gruffalo’ one more time, motherfuckers. I dare you.