Dear Goddamned Dog,
I am very sorry you don’t feel well. This much at least is clear.
What is less clear is why you woke me up throughout the night “boofing” at the cookie container – the bedroom cookie container, the one you get a few cookies from on nights when your acid reflux is acting up – only to spit them out once I’d given them to you.
A small aside here to note that though you clearly don’t appreciate my chuckling, it is still funny when you spit things. You look like an old-time gangster, casually spitting out sunflower seeds onto a Little Italy sidewalk as you talk about More Important Business. But I digress.
You could have boofed by the bedroom door and I’d have had let you out – you know that as almost 12 years of cohabitating has proven it.
You could have done that non-specific boofing you do, standing in the middle of the room and declaring sleep Not the Most Important Thing Right Now.
You could have head-butted the bed like you do when you have something important to express when I’m selfishly sleeping and not paying attention.
You could have yanked the covers off of the bed and piled them under you like you used to do before we had that discussion about “mine” and “knock it off.” It’s not like you ever bought that anyway.
But instead you boofed at the cookie jar, waited for me to give you two, first one and then the other, just like always, and then spit them out one at a time. Then you looked at me with sad disdain before moving away to lie uncomfortably on your bed, only to try again an hour or two later.
While you did seem to appreciate how quickly I got the towel under you when whatever it was decided to come up – “At least you haven’t lost that,” your glance seemed to say, I have clearly disappointed you in our other communications of the last 10 hours.
My apologies. Feel better, Goddamned dog.