I am writing to express my frustration with my new home. It seems you and Mommy are smitten with Brooklyn.
Personally, I think it sucks.
Yes, I do love the occasional scrap of food I find on the sidewalk and there are waaaay more butts to sniff, but you people fail to understand that I’m a country dog. The city can shove it.
I had spent my entire life in the south, where the weather was rarely cold, and if it was, what did I care? All I had to do was go out the back door, lift my leg and run back into our warm house (maybe even snuggle up next to the fireplace). Now, you people torture me with long walks in messy weather (I thought this was supposed to be spring?) and make me wear what is a woman’s coat (I don’t care what you say, Mommy, that dumb coat ain’t for boys). That coat earns me so much ridicule, my street cred is shot. Heck, just the other day a Bichon Frise — a freakin’ Bichon, people! — gave me crap about it. Said my coat made the purse his Mommy sticks him in while riding the subway look masculine in comparison.
Yes, we dogs talk. Daddy, you wonder why I often snap at other dogs. Like that poodle the other day. Sure, he seemed harmless. But when I told him I was holed up in a 300 square foot studio, that motherf*#!er replied, “that’s about the size of my floor pillow!”
It’s just too easy.
I went from being the envy of my old neighborhood, with that huge backyard and my own personal window perch … to having no yard, no window perch and no room, period. I can no longer play ball inside and now, surrounded by other apartments, I’m no longer allowed to bark at my sister when she’s being stupid (which is often).
The highlights of my day are the walks you take me and Stella on. Unfortunately, they’re way too short. You may think 20-30 minutes is a decent amount of time, but dude, those are the only times I get out of this hellhole! I feel like a prisoner … except don’t most prisons get cable these days? (Seriously, what on earth are you waiting for? Stella and I want our Animal Planet!) I love playing with the neighborhood children and working toward my goal of marking my territory on every brownstone in Cobble Hill and Brooklyn Heights. (That’s right, two nabes. Check it.) But I need time to do all of this. I thought you may get the hint when I started refusing to come in after walks. But no, you just dragged me through the door. Then, I thought, maybe if I walk really fast past our apartment building, you would just follow me and we could keep walking around the nabe. Again, you didn’t catch my drift, quickly redirecting me back to our apartment. At this point, I’m considering a hunger strike.
I could go on (and on and on) with this letter, but my feet hurt from having to stroll the concrete jungle. I think I’ll go lick the grime off my paws now. But before I go, please reconsider moving to the ‘burbs. Or having your parents adopt me — I really love their house and, unlike Stella, I won’t leave them any “gifts.”