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Contributed This Week

• An Open Letter from the Family Dog Upon the Occasion of the Birth of Our Daughters
  February 4, 2010 | 6:00 am

  

  CONTRIBUTED BY JAMIE POISSANT (Cleveland, OH)

  People—

  Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Scooter, and I used to matter. In fact, I used to be kind of a big thing around here. Nights, I’d curl up in Mother’s lap, maybe get a scratch behind the ears. When I was a good boy, I was given treats the flavor of chicken potpie. Back then, there were bones. There were walks. There were games of fetch—long, glorious escapades—the kind that leave the Frisbee riddled with tooth prints and slick with the glistening joy of my drool.

  And then they came along.

  I don’t know who they think they are, but they’re annoying. Mother and Father call them “the girls.” I call them crying, screaming, attention-hungry shit-machines. I mean, come on. These things go number two, and Mother is all like, “Oh, lookie, little baby made a doodie, la la la!” Then I tattoo the kitchen floor with my own special blend of herbs and spices, and it’s all watch-your-nose-mister-‘cause-here-comes-the-rolled-up-newspaper!

  They think they’re so special. But can babies bark? Can they run a five-minute mile? Will they ever hit that hard-to-reach-place with their tongues? I don’t think so.

  Plus, who the hell ever heard of a litter of two? Me, I was one of a half-dozen. Sure, the littlest was weak and had to be eaten, but that still left five, and I’m wondering: Just how hungry is Father?

  The babies, the babies. Two months now, and, still, all I ever hear is: “Hooray for the babies!” The rest of the time, it’s like: “Scooter? Scooter who?”

  I used to hold the park record for most pigeons choked by the throat, and now look at me. I don’t even have the strength to chase a squirrel. The sadness, it eats me up inside.

  A damned shame is what it is.

  Not to mention the fact that this is a delicate time in our nation’s history, a tense time, a tempest in a teapot kind of time. And don’t we, as Americans, owe it to ourselves to pay a little less attention to our infant daughters and a little more attention to the things that matter, pressing affairs like swine flu, the looming 2012 apocalypse, and the national concern over America’s Eggo waffle shortage.

  Leggo my Eggo? More like leggo those babies and pet your fucking dog, people. Come on!

  Then, too, there’s my concern over the burgeoning career of child actor-turned-singer Hannah Montana / Miley Cyrus. When is she Hannah? When is she Miley? Who’s keeping track? Because someone has to, someone must, or else: Chaos!

  People, I don’t trust them, and neither should you. Mother and Father are not to be trusted. Otherwise, what’s next? Sure, it starts out as less time wrestling on the floor, then, before you know it, you’re taking the long car ride to the big farm up north, except that there is no farm, there is no up north, there is only the ounce of oblivion held fast in the veterinarian’s syringe.

  And I have so much love to give. Why can no one see how much love I still have to give?

  —Farewell,

  Scooter

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