For years my reticence to take responsibility for the ownership of animals resulted in my declaring myself “not an animal lover” until I once sat on a plane next to a guy who was a twenty year veteran of PETA, and told him a few stories about my daughter’s greyhound, Roxy. After about ten minutes, he stopped me and said.”… I understand that you believe that you are not an animal lover, but you are wrong. You just told me a story about your daughter’s dog, which you said you rescued because it was mistreated by its owner, and then you told me you were heartbroken over the fact that this same dog was visibly devastated by the death of your other daughter’s dog. You are an animal lover. Do you realize that there are people in this world who would never rescue a dog and don’t believe that animals have feelings? The fact that you don’t want a pet doesn’t mean you don’t love animals.”
Point taken. Upon further reflection, I realized that despite the fact that my daughter was Roxy’s caretaker, the dog had somehow realized that I had rescued her and inexplicably viewed ME as her master, going so far as to poop in my closet every time I went out of town to let me know she was miffed.
But I digress.
In the interest of full disclosure, I grew up in a rural community where most animals lived outside. So I have had a tough time with the concept of, say, an 1800 bill for dog teeth cleaning so that I can kiss my dog on the mouth without vomiting from the stench of six month old lamb meal/butthole residue breath. I don’t feel the need to kiss a dog on the mouth. Ever. Mainly because, you know, butthole licking. I mean, I can break this rule once in awhile after a particularly pleasant session of getting my salad tossed during cunnulingus. But the thing is, that’s my OWN butthole residue. So. You know…
I digress again.
Anyway, I get that you think it makes you seem super animal friendly to drag your dog/ life prop around while you look at discounted better sportswear. I’m not sure how the dog benefits in the equation, given that there is little to no space to navigate, zero grass, and no food or water available for him. But, you know, he gets to be with you when you FINALLY (fingers crossed) score that extra small WILDFOX “Life is a Beach” tank top from 2010 on sale. And really, no one else in your life cares enough about you to go anywhere with you. So what choice do you have?
Here’s the thing, Dog Fucker. This store has a sign at the bottom of the escalator that CLEARLY states no dogs are allowed. Do you know why? Of course not. But your dog did. Which is why he sat down at the bottom and refused to get on until you YANKED him up the stairs by his leash. Even then he sat, pulled onto the moving stairs against his will, refusing to stand up. Because he is not a dumb fuck like you are, and he instinctively knows his paws could get caught. So, not wanting to be maimed, he sat down.
Here’s an experiment. Next time you are thinking of using an escalator, first remove your shoes and socks. Then have anyone who may still be speaking to you, (if you know anyone) push you onto the escalator. Then, if you are still standing, have another “friend” yank you up the stairs by your arms. Or your neck. You know, whatever works. Then see if you give one flying fuck what brand of jeans is available at the top of the stairs.
Don’t get back to me with the results.
PS. Fuck you. Seriously.