He gets home. He leaves. He gets home. He sleeps. He gets home. He looks at me like "what the hell do you want?"
God, if only I could speak English. What do you think I want?! Attention! Give me some good, full-hearted attention like you give that brunette chick that's always over at your house!
All of those people out there who say, 'oh, if only I had the life of a dog' should be smacked. Hard. Not that I'm tooting my own horn here or anything, but I have to admit, I am a pretty cute pup; blonde hair, thin build, and a face that just screams to be kissed and loved. I've only been living with this guy for a few months, but I've already got a list of complaints.
Complaint Number One: Turn on your heat! What month do you think it is, June?! I mean, I know I'm a dog and everything, and you might look at me and say, 'ahh, you've got hair, you'll be warm.' Yeah, maybe if you set it at a reasonable temperature. That one day, it got down to 55 degrees in here; do you know how cold that is?! And you can't even leave on the fireplace heater for me while you're at work. Cheap bastard. When you do have the fireplace on for me, you comment on how cute it is that I sleep curled up in a ball, my wet nose only fractions of an inch from the glass that separates me and those fake logs. I mean, I guess if you think me literally freezing my tail off is precious, then fine, but you have issues. If only I had thumbs to dial 911 to report you to the proper authorities for a psychotic episode or something.
Complaint Number Two: My toys. Come on, how old am I? 21! and what do you buy me? A green squeeky toy. You know, the sick thing is, you and that girlfriend of yours get more of a kick out of it than I do. "Ha ha! It's so funny, the squeeky toy is under the rug and OH MY GOD, it SQUEEKS!" What a concept! And you people are the top of the food chain?
Complaint Number Three: My food. Going back to the whole cheap bastard thing, for all of you people out there, Old Roy is only cheap because it is disgusting. Yeah, you think I'm a dog, oh, I'll eat anything. Mmmm, not happening. So, remember that time you bought me that new food and I got so excited because I actually thought it might be decent, as in not containing chicken beaks? Then you pulled it out of the grocery bag, and if only my head were a little higher, I would have full on nailed you in the crotch; you did buy new food, but more OLD ROY. Come onnnnn, cut me some slack. So, in protest, I didn't eat. I mean, to your knowledge I didn't, but I've become quite skilled at picking things out of the garbage without disturbing them. You would come home from work for the next week, look at me, and ask me if I were ok, why wasn't I eating? And you would even say to that broad of yours that I hadn't been eating and she would say, Oh, she probably doesn't like her food: BINGO, buddy! For once, this chick right about something!
Revenge will be mine. You wait. New pair of Armani loafers: in my mouth, all slobbered up. That Christmas gift she got you: oops, my tail knocked it over! Shattering glass.
Oh, p.s- that Tempurpedic bed: really comfy when you're not looking.