Dear Dog Of Destruction

(A personal note to my dog, but y'all are welcome to eavesdrop):

What did we ever do to you? Didn't my wife snatch you from one of her students who found you pillaging in their trash? Didn't we take you into our house and offer you food, love and shelter? Haven't we set you up with a heated doggy pillow? So why do you repay us with such obvious disdain?

Okay, you're not allowed on the sofas. I'm only allowed on them after a shower. Doesn't give you human rights. You gotta stop ripping the crap outta' the sofa when the mailman comes. Yes, he brings bills and fliers about hair removal. But you can't know that. Even if you did understand "humanese," it's still not a reason to tear up the house.

One time you were so pissed at the mailman, you put your paw through a glass picture frame. Who was there to rush you to the doggy doctor, sick at the sight of all the blood? And who had to put up with the questions and nervous looks as to why I had blood stains all over the back seat? I was nearly branded a serial killer, thanks to you, my fine, furious, furry friend. But I've stayed with you through thick and tics.

And what's the deal with trying to sniff my crotch when I wake up? I've never tried it, but I can guarantee it ain't purty. I never promised you a rose garden. So cut it out!

But when I look into your golden eyes, angry at you when you've destroyed another piece of furniture? I melt. You had me at your expert facial licking.

P.S., chocolate's not good for you. It's like toxic lima beans. Only deadlier.

Your playpal,

Stuart