Yes, dog, you totally scared me away from your shit-filled yard

Yes, dog, you totally scared me away from your shit-filled yard

Listen to me, dog: I am not afraid of you. That’s right, you collared, overfed mongrel. Countless generations of domestication have showed you your place as the subservient BFF of mankind. But every time I walk past this house, there you are with this attitude, tail up and teeth bared. Teeth that have chewed on nothing but milk bones and the occasional stick for all three of your paltry years as the Walker family court jester.

Go ahead, Balto. Bark at me. I’ll humor you this time. What’s that? Yes, I am walking away from your compound. You’ve won. You scared me off. Keep barking as I flee, defeated. But wait—I’m turning around. I’m looking you right in the eyes and fast approaching. And what’s that? You’ve stopped. You’re cowering at the sight of me! Not so cheeky now, are you? We both know you’re not in charge here. One whistle from owner-man and you’d retreat like the spineless, acquiescent yes-dog that you are.

Sure, you’ve got some wolf in your blood. That’s like me saying I’m one percent black. I see you’re peeing on the bushes again. Real bold, Cortés. Your front yard piddling elicits howling laughter from all of wolfkind, whose urine-staked dominion encompasses entire mountain ranges, who can take down a bull moose with a couple friends when they get tired of caribou. A fucking bull moose. What have you done lately?

I’d like to see you try to sink your teeth into that rabbit over there. That trembling rabbit, barely clinging to the bottom of the food chain, who still has the gumption to raise his family in those piss-soaked bushes you’re so fond of. You live next door to an all-you-can-eat buffet of baby rabbits open twenty-four hours a day, and you spend the afternoon barking at passerby until owner-man comes home and fills your bowl. I bet if you ever tried one of those furry hot-pockets you’d puke all over the yard and go beg owner-man for more milk bones. Or maybe Gaines Burgers, so you can pretend for one minute that you’re a hungry, carnivorous beast and not some grain-fed, hapless, furry, soft, kind of cute, sometimes playful, palm-licking, spirit-lifting, irresistibly cuddly, entirely lovable, filthy mutt.

Matt Beachey