|Buddy the dog after he killed Santa for his cookies and stole his hat|
If you’re a hypersensitive freak like I am, you undoubtedly get really fucking annoyed at things like; people chewing, breathing, speaking loudly, or just being alive and around you. Speaking of chewing, please Kit Kat, end those, nails down a chalkboard, crunching commercials. You know the ones, the overly-exaggerated sounds of people snapping open the bar and shoving it in their mouths and chewing with a ridiculous amount of decibels.
Anyway, the sounds I hate most in the world are that of animals being animals. For instance, dogs licking themselves. It doesn’t matter which part of the dog’s stupid body that they lick, it all sounds like an old lady slurping the world’s hottest cup of coffee.
I know a certain dog, let’s call him Buddy. I know, very inventive name. It’s like naming your son, Son. At any rate, Buddy does whatever he can to annoy the living fuck out of me. If there’s a noise that his dog body is able to make, he makes it. Just for me. He especially loves to lick his chops in the middle of the night. That extra long dog tongue comes out and licks from ear-to-ear. Somehow, Buddy is able to make a “sighing” sound to express his boredom. To wake you up in the morning-on Saturdays, the fucker will scrape his front claws on the door frame.
Suffice it to say, I’ve had many thoughts about killing this beast. My latest theory is that if I make Buddy’s death look like a suicide, I won’t go to jail.
Not to get too graphic here, but my first plan is to put Buddy in the bathtub. Maybe light some candles, put on a little Who Let the Dogs Out?, and slash his wrist. Then I thought, “Buddy hates taking a bath, he’d never kill himself that way.”
We all know that if a dog could wield a knife, it would stab you in the neck for your hamburger. And we all know that chocolate is deadly to dogs. What if Buddy, looking back on his life, felt he hadn’t accomplished any of his doggy goals, and he just couldn’t take it? I readily have copious amounts of sleeping pills lying around. Buddy would wrap like ten of those suckers in Baker’s chocolate, you know, because dogs are too stupid to swallow pills, and start chomping away. Then I thought, “Buddy doesn’t have opposable thumbs, he couldn’t possibly wrap the pills in chocolate.”
Finally, I found the right way for Buddy to commit suicide. Buddy loves rotisserie chicken. In fact, he labors under the delusion that one will just magically appear in the recycle bin every morning. And he’ll scratch at the back door every morning to check for just that. What better way to take care of my “dog issues” than to just leave a whole chicken right on the counter where he can easily reach it. He does get on his hind legs and scarf anything that’s close to the edge. This is fucking perfect. He’d eat that chicken in one gulp and choke to death.
What would his suicide note say? “Sorry, Eric,” and a greasy paw print? Or maybe, “Humans, I know that there’s a barbeque rotisserie chicken on the counter. I can’t control my cravings any longer. Goodbye cold, cruel world.”
There you have it.
*No actual animals were harmed in this post, unfortunately.