I’m Your Dog And You’re Not My Real Mom
By: Megan Broussard
Tags: Satire, Dogs, Moms, Adoption, Humor

Photo by Tanino from Pexels

Hey, Nancy, it’s me, your seven-month-old cockapoo sitting in timeout for eating your Birkenstock. Listen, I thought now might be a good time to remind you of one thing; you can’t tell me what to do because you’re not my real mom!

Oh, you didn’t think I’d find out I’m adopted? Well, maybe you shouldn’t leave my Gotcha Day papers lying around. Don’t give me that look like I’ve been snooping. You know that corner of the closet is where I go to pee when it rains.

Anyway, I entered my chip number into 23andPee, and it turns out I’m Irish-setter on my mother Willow’s side and Portuguese Water Dog on dad’s. I found her on Facebook and she told me everything. Momma was a groupie for papa’s band Rollin’ Bones and he chased that tail behind a dumpster at an afterparty. They made me, then papa died a week later from sharing a dirty water bowl with a dachshund roadie. Hey, that’s rock ’n’ roll, baby — and my real mom is a real badass…unlike you, Nancy.

You’re too afraid to let loose. You have no idea what it’s like to let your body hair down. I think that’s the reason you think every fun thing I do is a “no-no” — no eating Airpods, no humping couch pillows, no burying your underwear! You’re afraid to take risks and enjoy life. You couldn’t entertain yourself, so you thought you’d scoop up a project at Adopt-a-Palooza and name me something stupid. Do I look like a Digit to you? What does that even mean? From now on I want to be called by what momma said she named me: Mick Wagger Jr.

Nancy, I’m sick and tired of your rules and judgments. It’s exhausting. Why else do you think I nap for hours with my face in my food bowl?

Take yesterday at the dog park for example. You throw a ball, I catch it, and I’m “a good boy”. The next thing I know, after taking the initiative to find a bone and bring it to you, it’s suddenly “bad dog” and “give that man his prosthetic leg back”! It’s all mixed signals with you, Nance! And I won’t stand, sit, stay or heel for it any longer.

I want to live with my real mom! She’s out in a California living in a desert commune and said I can have all the bacon I want! She eats ribeye steaks for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, not this Science Diet crap that tastes like regurgitated rubber. Just because you’re 20 pounds overweight after your 9th failed attempt to do a juice fast doesn’t mean I should suffer like you, Nancy!

If I wanted to decorate my bedroom with toilet paper like I did last Thursday, I bet she wouldn’t scold me like you did. Hell, she’d probably grab one end of the toilet paper roll and help me wrap the whole house. She’d bring reinforcements even — probably offer to egg the place for Dog’s sake!

Why can’t you accept me for who I am instead of stifling my creativity, hunger for more and my affinity for toilet bowl water? Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.

Remember when I chewed the corner of your new end table and you sprayed it with sour apple to keep me away? Just once — I wish you’d sprinkle cheese or peanut butter on it and say you’re proud of me. Dog-dammit, I’m teething, Nancy! My real mom would understand that.

Momma Willow wouldn’t yell at me for getting “all riled up” as you call it just for biting the girl scout! In fact, she told me that once she did time for attacking the USPS guy. She went years living on the streets; not just trying to stay alive, Nancy. She really lived. She stole apple pies from window sills. She barked at small children until they cried. She ran through carefully manicured piles of leaves until she saw a bumper she wanted to chase. What have you chased in life Nancy, other than waterfalls at karaoke on girls night?

Honestly, Nancy, It’s pathetic. How could I possibly respect you? Please stop trying to take the place of my real mom. For starters, you simply don’t have nearly enough nipples!

I told momma Willow about this morning; when I left you a present — a personalized poop — on your pillow and you threatened to never allow me in bed again. You know what she said? She said she doesn’t give a shit who climbs in her bed, and when she does give a shit she does that wherever and whenever she wants.

Wait, where are you going, Nancy?

Is that a Milkbone you’ve got there? Forget what I said before, Nance. I mean, mom! Mommie Dearest, I don’t know what came over me just now. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll dance, roll over, I’ll paw. I love you, mom!