Dear My Children:
I’m sorry, but you’re not going to wear me down on this one. Sometimes Daddy has to be a dick. This is one of those times.
Yes, I know you really, really, REALLY want a dog. The fact that you say it on a daily basis has tipped me off. If you ask me every day to wrap my feet in bacon and plunge them into a tank full of starving piranha, the answer also will be “No.” The frequency of your request makes no difference to me, is my point.
Yes, I know your cousins have a dog. I encourage you to visit them more often so that you can play with him. Because we are not getting one.
You see, children, the thing is: You have no clue what owning a dog entails … and even if you did, it would not matter, because neither of you will be the one doing what owning a dog entails, day in, day out, for the rest of our hypothetical dog’s life.
You will not, for example, be getting up in the middle of the night to tend to the crying, whimpering puppy. You will not be cleaning the puppy urine and poop off of our expensive, light-colored, wall-to-wall carpet. You will not repeatedly be walking the dog around the neighborhood like a zombie while collecting its poop in a plastic bag. You will not be picking up and disposing of the piles of poop that appear in our yard each day.
Basically, dog = poop … and I officially stopped dealing with any poop other than my own when you two stopped wearing diapers. Sorry.
You also, by the way, will not be supplying the endless stream of cash needed to pay for all of the dog food and dog paraphernalia and veterinarian bills that will total an astronomical sum by the end of our hypothetical dog’s life.
Speaking of which: By the time our hypothetical dog reaches the end of his or her life, you most likely won’t even be living in this house anymore … which means you will not be the ones to nurse the dog during its pre-death period of infirmity, nor have to deal up close and personal with said dog’s eventual death. The desire I have to subject myself to that kind of emotional roller coaster and devestating loss can best be described as “totally nonexistent.”
And as I gaze upon the many things listed above that you will not be doing for our hypothetical dog, it is not lost upon me just who will be responsible for all of those things: ME. Which brings us back to: Fuck no.
You see, children, having a dog is like having a baby … except the baby never advances beyond age two. I do not want another baby … so much so that I was willing to let a stranger cut my scrotum open and mutilate things inside of it [< -FYI, this link leads to a post I wrote about getting a vasectomy, and not to a horrific photo of genital mutilation. I promise]. Now, think for a moment, if you will, about the level of commitment it requires to subject oneself to that sort of unpleasantness … and then ask yourself if my resolve about not having
another baby a dog is likely to falter.
In closing: I hope you are enjoying the fish.
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