My Dearest Smokey,
Today I was curtly informed that you pooped underneath the dining room table again. For the life of me, I don't understand why you keep defecating there. Does it give you some warm sense of relief? Does it just feel appropriate?
Either way, the general conscious around the house is that you should be killed for being old, stinky, and senile.
Okay, I phrased that last sentence poorly - I apologize - but that notion is pretty much a reality around here these days. Everyone's grown tired of you. Don't get me wrong, they still care for you, but just not enough to go through the ridiculously taxing times of canine anility. It may not sound pretty, but they want me to rob your last breaths from you, partially because it's the only humane option, but also because it's the most convenient one as well.
I admit, I struggle with this decision on a daily basis. You're just a dog, but I love you more than I should. Does this love prevent me from giving you respite? That's a subjective question, mainly because nobody knows how miserable your life is right now save for you. Will the great void of postmortem provide you more peace than the slight psychosis of your present day existence? Who knows. I wish you'd just crawl under the porch or stop eating. Just give me a sign. I'd gladly abide by your will.
Personally, if I could afford myself the mental fortitude, I'd poop under the table with you everyday of the week! Live and let live, no matter how many levels of insanity this world bares down upon our souls! Like I said, it's just me and you here, playboy. Ride till we die!
Today I was curtly informed that you pooped underneath the dining room table again. For the life of me, I don't understand why you keep defecating there. Does it give you some warm sense of relief? Does it just feel appropriate?
Either way, the general conscious around the house is that you should be killed for being old, stinky, and senile.
Okay, I phrased that last sentence poorly - I apologize - but that notion is pretty much a reality around here these days. Everyone's grown tired of you. Don't get me wrong, they still care for you, but just not enough to go through the ridiculously taxing times of canine anility. It may not sound pretty, but they want me to rob your last breaths from you, partially because it's the only humane option, but also because it's the most convenient one as well.
I admit, I struggle with this decision on a daily basis. You're just a dog, but I love you more than I should. Does this love prevent me from giving you respite? That's a subjective question, mainly because nobody knows how miserable your life is right now save for you. Will the great void of postmortem provide you more peace than the slight psychosis of your present day existence? Who knows. I wish you'd just crawl under the porch or stop eating. Just give me a sign. I'd gladly abide by your will.
Personally, if I could afford myself the mental fortitude, I'd poop under the table with you everyday of the week! Live and let live, no matter how many levels of insanity this world bares down upon our souls! Like I said, it's just me and you here, playboy. Ride till we die!
