I don’t know whether you’re a fox, or a cat, or particularly large and carnivorous squirrel, or a creaky, creepy, skeletal human who has crawled out of one of the 150-year-old graves, or an alive-and-kicking human who likes to have his dinner in an old, ramshackle graveyard of all places, and quite frankly I couldn’t care less what you are, I just beg of you to stop leaving chunks of half-chewed meat all over the place.
Sometimes I walk my dog through the Old Ramshackle Graveyard because it soothes my soul to imagine being laid to rest for hundreds of years in a place where I’ll quickly be overtaken by trees and weeds and mulch and vines (and apparently chunks of half-chewed meat). And I know that sounds terribly morbid and like there’s something wrong with my brain, and I’ll level with you and admit that there might be, but I don’t have time to get into that now.
The point, dear Creature, is that my peaceful morning walks in the Old Ramshackle Graveyard are being made unduly stressful by the task of watching my dog like a hawk to prevent her from scarfing down your chunks of half-chewed meat.
But my dog isn’t built like other dogs. My dog eats carrot sticks and cucumber slices and high-protein kibble and carefully curated meat that comes out of a sachet. When my dog eats weird graveyard meat it messes with her insides. It gives her the squits, mate.
It gives her the squits so bad that she wakes me up five times a night to have herself a series of noxious, watery explosions in the backyard. It gives her the squits so bad that she recently got caught off guard and left a steaming pile of misery on a perfectly lovely bathmat which then had to be thrown away. It gives her the squits so bad that she’s left staring wide-eyed at her own backside as if it has been possessed by something that crawled out of the darkest and most twisted pits of hell. Your half-chewed meat, dear Creature, has my dog squitting through the eye of a needle and I’ve had enough of it.
And I know what you’re going to say… “Why should I stop leaving my half-chewed meat all over the place when you could stop walking your dog through the Old Ramshackle Graveyard which, might I add, I have every right to have my dinner in?”
I don’t have an answer for you, Creature. You’re right. This does sound a bit like a Me Problem that I’m trying to make a You Problem. But I like the graveyard and you like the graveyard and sometimes in order for everyone to have a nice time in an old ramshackle graveyard, we have to clean up after ourselves for the greater good. You don’t see me leaving my dog’s horrifying squits all over the place, do you? I dutifully bag ‘em and bin ‘em (and let me tell you that bagging liquids is no easy feat). Perhaps you could return the same courtesy for your chunks of half-chewed meat.
Listen, dear Creature, I don’t want any tension between us, not least because as long as I don’t know what type of creature you are, I’d prefer to stay on your good side. But I’m wondering what you’re even doing spitting out chunks of meat instead of just eating them. Is it because you are in fact a creaky, creepy, skeletal human who has crawled out of one of the 150-year-old graves and therefore you have no gullet or stomach or bowel in which to contain and digest your meat chunks after chewing them? Or are you an oversized carnivorous squirrel who realises after every bite of meat that you actually much prefer the taste of hazelnuts? Or are you an alive-and-kicking human who simply treats meat like chewing gum? If it’s the latter, I’d be happy to buy you a packet of Juicy Fruit to help you see the error of your ways.
My point is, I’d like to find a solution. I want us to work this out. I want us to coexist in the Old Ramshackle Graveyard without any arguments or half-buried resentments (pardon the pun). Let me know how I can help you so that you can help me help my dog get her poor, quivering bowels under control. Cheers, mate.
All the best,