Margot, my love, you are the only thing, living or inanimate, that I absolutely despise about my new apartment. You and your owners (my neighbors). For anonymity's sake - and because I don't want your owners finding this post by Googling your stupid name (which I'm sure they do on a regular basis), which is actually even more unique, ill-thought and dumb-sounding than "Margot" - I will be calling your mutt face "Margot" in the words that follow.
I should have known upon move-in. I should have known that leaving my back door open for 30 seconds would result in you wandering into my place like you were interested in subletting for the summer. Margot, I believe you were the first living thing I met in this building, howling and growling at me like I had no business being in my own newly rented unit. You were in my kitchen, what with your pudgy, girthy figure; short, brown coat; flat-iron face; black, recessed snout; stubby, bowed legs; and wiry, curly tail. You resemble that of a pig, Margot. A pig that is a dog.
Now, I love dogs. I grew up with dogs my entire life, and I still plan on owning and taking care of a dog one day (a dog unlike Margot). I even moved here from a city where there are statistically more dogs than children. But when your coddling owners treat you better than 99 percent of parents treat a living, breathing child - when I can hear all three of you swooning outside my apartment at 1, 2, 3 in the morning because Margot just took a dump - I simply have to draw the line: I hate you all.
I don't know how you do it, man. I'm calling you "man" because I forgot both you and and your girlfriend's names. It's like you're a stay-at-home father. But again: for a dog. You don't work, you don't go to school, and are somehow up both earlier and later than I am - usually playing with Margot in the dog park, championing her to fetch a poorly thrown tennis ball as if she were some primed Olympic athlete in training; or carrying her up and down the stairs like she just had four prosthetic knee replacements, or polio; or trying to verbally convince her for 10 minutes to stop barking at my back door (a cross-section view of which must be rather amusing - me on one side in my kitchen, shaking my head in disbelief, you two on the other side, one barking relentlessly at a big slab of wood and the other, apparently smarter life-form standing behind you, asking you if you really think continuing to bark at my door is the best idea when he should in theory be kicking you in the butt and saying, "Get your ugly ass back inside this apartment this instant!" It's not the best idea, Margot, and it's really goddamn annoying, so stop); or seeing the girlfriend, the bread-winner in your household, off to work each day (this is equally special [read: nauseating] and involves more baby talk, the boyfriend standing at the gate, Margot in his bosom, both of them waving goodbye to her, a human hand clenching a mangled paw in one pathetic, cross-species au revoir. "Say goodbye, Margot! Wish mama a good day!" This. Every freaking day).
In fact, as I write this, I am listening to you two playing on the back porch, which is also my back porch, which is also adjacent to my bedroom. It is exactly 1:20 a.m. on a Wednesday. "Go on, Margot. Go on! Get it, Margot! That's a good girl. Who's my favorite? Who's my favorite girl?! Yes, Margot! Yesh, yesh, yesh! That's a good Margot! Good girrrlll! Yesh, yesh, yesh!"
Gag me with a spoon, this is sickening. I hope I don't sound like this when talking to my cat. I try talking to and treating pets like they are accountable human beings, or friends of mine. It's better for both this way - the animal doesn't feel belittled and I don't feel and look like a complete jackass. Truth be told, I really wanted to name my cat Karen so I could fully live out this experiment. Alas, things happen...
At this point in the evening I will digress by taking twice the recommended dosage of NyQuil, so as to savor any shot I have at getting some shut-eye tonight (or ever). Thanks.