Open letter to dog owners

To whom it may concern,

It’s not okay for your dog to sniff me. I know, before you even tell me, I know. Your dog is friendly. He, she, or it is the canine Mr. Rogers and he just wants to be my friend. That being the case, you should teach the cur that snuffling people with a glistening snooter is not going to put everyone in a very sociable mood. And please don’t tell me that that is how dogs experience the world. There are numerous innocuous ways to experience my testicles without putting a snot drenched nose against them and huffing furiously.
I am fully aware that it’s “just a dog”. They don’t reason very well, nor are they capable of learning social rules any more complex than not pooping on the carpet. Any creature who can happily squat down on a busy sidewalk and pinch one off, legs a-quiver tongue lolling dreamily while people pass by trying not to look is going to have a hard time remembering if it has to kiss on one cheek or two when greeting new acquaintances. That’s why they are our best friends and not the other way around. That is also why, when your dog starts to accost me with a muzzle that smells like old meat and a Sunday morning hangover, I tell you to control your beast and don’t bother politely asking your pet.
But I will still kick the hound, if only because you are usually a few steps behind and therefore out of my range. Don’t worry though, at first, it will be a warning blow – the hound dog shuffle, I call it – meant to send a message more than any kind of real pain. But if it doesn’t desist from its sniffing or licking or growling of jumping up on me with dirty paws, I’ll bend it like Beckham without much second thought. I don’t consider myself a violent person but if it comes down to me or a canine, I will be tickled pink to punt your pooch. I’ll slap your Weimeraner, I’ll upper cut your mutt, I’ll body slam your Labrador, I’ll stomp your Chihuahua or Pomeranian like a medium sized cockroach and I will dance on its carcass like drunken Mongol.
Please don’t accuse me of being a dog hater. I like dogs. I just don’t like your dog, and I don’t like you. Oh, he’s friendly? By all means, have him buy me a drink. Oh, that’s right, it’s just a dog.
That’s funny because, before the beast started doing unacceptable things to my leg, it was another member of the family. You talked to him and let him sleep on your bed and bought him special collars and coats for when it gets cold and a food bowl with his name on it and you scratched him behind his ears and kissed his head. Now, all of a sudden, he’s just a damn, dirty dog who’s dry humping into my knee cap. As the speed of his thrusts quickens, I get the feeling that you are lying to me and you really don’t think he is “just a dog” at all, you simply respect him more than you respect me and my soon to be soiled trousers.
Despite myself, I can understand that. Dogs are wonderful companions and they fill an emotional hole that you have in your life. Dogs need us, love us, and it’s important to feel important. It may be something of an shallow relationship, but so what? I’ve had tons of those with real live people and none of them were half as satisfying as the fierce unconditionality of canine luvin. But these types of bonds have their problems too: namely, you are involved in a deeply satisfying, life affirming relationship with an animal, and not even a particularly intelligent one. If it were a boyfriend or a girlfriend, you could work on it: take them to the natural history museum or the theatre, help them pick out clothes at J-Crew, gently teach them how to kiss without licking your entire face. If worse comes to worse, you break up. With a dog, you’re pretty much stuck with it until the thing gets worms, or you back over it while rushing to work. Of course, you can always drop it off in the country or tie it to the door of the pound at night, but that is not quite like flushing the goldfish down the toilet. It feels much more like a skeleton in the closet than just a domestic peccadillo – right up there with stealing from your senile grandmother. No… you’re in this one for the long haul, which means coming to terms in one way or another with the fact that Spike, or Annie, or Eli, or Guinness or Bo Seefus or Nancy Reagan is never quite going to attain the rank of “polite company”.
What really doesn’t add up is why you are always blaming me when your dog does something inappropriate or aggressive. As far as I know, I’m not the anti-Christ nor the harbinger of any sort of ancient evil that animals can just sense, so please stop telling me that I’m provoking it. Instead, try saying: “Sorry, my dog is a stupid, lesser form of life who has trouble controlling his more base instincts.” If you just say this, I will smile, give you an understanding, “you can’t control everything” sort of shrug, thank you for being candid then elbow drop the terrier.
Finally, for the love of whatever craven image you worship, pick up the beast’s mess. Don’t stand their politely looking in the other direction, whistling Brian Adams’ songs while your companion lays a thick, fetid coil of feces in the exact spot where my foot will undoubtedly step in the near future. It’s not like the dog needs privacy. Just carry a bag, or a Tupperware container, or strap on one of those bags they use for horses and I will respect you even as I snicker at the sight of a grown person stooping down to plunge their plastic-covered hand into their “best friend’s” eye watering jobby. If the dog has an upset stomach, you are on your own. Perhaps there is some sort of siphoning technique involved.

sincerely,

T.E.