My Dog's Letter To Me From Doggy Jail

Dearest Mother —

I write to you from doggy jail, a Hellish place from which all hope has fled.

You have lured me lo these many years to this place you call “the office” by speaking those magical words against which I have no defense—“Go for a ride?”— only to lock me within this glass chamber you sometimes call “the conference room.”

I conference only with sadness and a burning desire for freedom!

The conditions here are unspeakable. My bedding is but a scrap of fabric thrown carelessly to the floor by the Warden (that would be you).

My cell contains no couch. No recliner. No second couch. No comfy pillows upon which to drool and fart. No Queen-size Sealy Posturepedic to lie across diagonally so that no one else has room to sleep except for one inch of mattress right at the edge.

And worst of all (I beg that you steel yourself for my next words), I have no blankie.

The horror.

Oh, sure, I have food and water. Same ol’ same ol’. You’d think I’d get something special for being in doggy jail. Lobster, maybe. I don’t even know if I like lobster. I probably do. You should get one the next time you’re at Safeway. And maybe one of those rotisserie chickens. Just sayin’.

And, okay, you bestowed upon me one toy with which I may bide my time. A cellmate, if you will. But it’s not even my favorite toy. I mean, right now it’s not. It might be tomorrow. That’s the fun thing about dogs — we keep you guessing.

I’m just going to ignore the toy anyway because I’m too busy burning holes into you with my eyes all the way across the waiting room. If I had a cup I’d rake it across the bars of my cell yelling, “Attica! Attica!”

But since I don’t have a cup (or opposable thumbs), I’m just going to bark randomly and completely without warning. One of those real high-pitched barks. Preferably when you’re carrying something wet, like a glass of water, or a mug of hot tea that you were really looking forward to.

If the dog is unhappy, everybody is unhappy.

Lo! I beg of thee! What is my crime? Some random client has a made-up “allergy” to dogs? That’s not even a thing. If you ask me, if he’s so allergic to stuff he should just stay home. That’s what I think.

It’s common knowledge that a pet in the workplace increases employee satisfaction by about a zillion percent and that people will work longer and harder if their bestest buddy is available for tummy rubbings and ear scritches at a moment's notice.

Remember when you forgot my raincoat and I had to wear a garbage bag?

Just look at me. I’ve never been so humiliated in my life. But did I complain? No! I am your willing and humble servant! Your wish is my every command, and also your commands are my every command, which sometimes I don’t “hear” because I’m “stubborn”, or words to that effect. I’m not sure, I wasn’t listening.

Listen, lady, my lawyer’s going to hear about this. I’m done fooling around. I’ve been in here for 15 minutes, which is ten years in dog time. I’m pretty sure this is against the Geneva Convention — I remember all those Hogan’s Heroes reruns. Just because I was laying on my back snoring with all four feet in the air doesn’t mean I wasn’t paying attention.

Wait — you’re opening the door? I can come out??

YAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I love you! Now give me a bone, and then it’s time for a nap.

Your loving and constant companion,

Hershey