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March 6, 2021 · 7:04 pm

20 Things I Never Imagined I’d Say to My Dog

It’s really cold outside and it’s not time for a walk yet. I just want to spoon you and watch Hallmark movies. All day.
I know the FedEx truck looks tasty, but YOU CAN’T EAT IT. Stop barking as if you’re possessed. Please try to act like a normal dog.
Must you INHALE your food? CHEW already, you maniacal little beast.
Yes, the doorbell is ringing. On television. That doesn’t mean you need to freak out or work your stupid self into a barking frenzy.
Stop licking yourself…your 7 million plush toys…the stuff I spilled on the floor…the strange dog you just met…the leather couch…the carpet…the dishwasher…my feet…the road kill you love more than life itself… JUST. STOP. LICKING.
Why do you feel compelled to eviscerate your stuffed animal toys? Isn’t it enough to pluck out their eyes and dismember them 15 minutes after I present you with a new one? FYI, the squeaky thing inside IS NOT the devil.
Stop dragging dirty socks and underwear into the living room like a frat boy on a panty raid. You disgust me. Also, please note that the foul matter in the trash can IS NOT FOOD. Please stop gnawing on it and strewing it all over the house.
DO NOT pee on your brother’s head. No, it’s not at all like marking territory. He’s another dog. Just a shorter version. And by the way, marking territory INSIDE the house is a VERY, VERY BAD thing to do. I will stop loving you if you do it again. No I won’t. I love you unconditionally, against all logic and understanding.
Why did you eat AN ENTIRE LOAF OF BREAD (and/or leftover pizza, Halloween candy, et al.) while we were gone? You glutton.
The crows and defenseless squirrels we see on our walks are not secretly mocking you; therefore, you needn’t chase or lunge at them like some sort of savage, effectively dislocating my shoulder in the process.
Must you torment the cat? I realize that he is mocking you every minute of every day, but is it necessary to hunt him down like a dog? I understand that you are, in fact, a dog. It’s a rhetorical question.
You don’t own the couch. Please share the space in this house with the humans who live here—as much as it pains you.
For the love of God, STOP EATING POO, or anything that resembles poo. Deer droppings are not Skittles. Neither is bear dung or rabbit pellets. Have we not taught you anything?
If you walk directly in front of me or trail me closer than my shadow, we WILL collide. It’s basic physics. Two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time. Google it.
Please refrain from doing your business in the neighbor’s beautifully manicured lawn if you can help it. If you could circle back and instead utilize the vast expanse of woods and weeds we just passed I’d be eternally grateful, you never-ending poop factory.
Back up, please, so I can actually open the door for you. I know you’re beyond excited to go for a walk, but it won’t be possible unless and until you back up.
You most certainly CANNOT EAT THE JOGGER, the kid on the scooter, the woman pushing the stroller, or the adorable toddler inside the stroller who desperately wants to pet you because you look like a cute little dog, only deranged. Oh, and here’s a newsflash: YOU’RE MAKING YOURSELF HACK AND CHOKE by pulling on the leash. Not me.
Did you seriously startle yourself with your own fart? You crack me up, you weird little dog.
What’s with the poop ritual—the one where you practically screw yourself into the ground before you actually go? Should I hire an excrement coach?
Must you shame me into giving you food during dinner? Don’t give me those eyes. I simply can’t handle it.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, uttering the most ridiculous things to my dogs.

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Filed under Doggie Diamonds, Home is Where the Weirdness Lives, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as dog lovers, dogs, humor, love, must love dogs, pets, rescue dogs

September 7, 2011 · 5:57 pm

Of Mutts and Men

Dear lovers of dogs and appreciators of humorous prose (i.e. prospective buyers of Wade Rouse’s celebrated collection of dog essays, I’m Not the Biggest Bitch in This Relationship):

I am a dog. Planet Mom’s dog to be exact. My name is Jack, although on occasion I’ve been referred to as Jackwagon, Jackass, Jackshit and even Jackcheese. Of course, my ridiculously small brain doesn’t allow me to process words in excess of one syllable, so I have yet to assign any real meaning to the aforementioned utterances; however I suspect they are largely derogatory in nature. Mostly because when Planet Mom uses them, she’s either a) gritting her teeth, b) hurling things at my wee head or c) shrieking in a belligerent manner while waving her arms about frantically—all of which I find inordinately amusing.

In any event, you may call me Jack or Mister Fuzzy Pants if you prefer, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll come when you call. That’s just how it works. Dogs own people, which is the underlying message of Rouse’s new book released by Penguin Books just yesterday. Naturally, this makes me delirious with joy because finally, FINALLY, someone acknowledges the very real circumstance by which dog and human relationships are governed. In a word, this 255-page literary gem is pee worthy. God knows how I feel uniquely compelled to pee whenever anything really exciting happens—or perhaps run around in circles like a deranged squirrel. But I digress.

In sum, its pages are filled with cleverly written essays by some of the world’s most renowned humorists (i.e. Alice Bradley, Jen Lancaster, W. Bruce Cameron, Sarah Pekkanen, Jill Conner Browne, Jenny Gardiner, Jane Green, Alec Mapa, Stephanie Klein and lots, lots more). There’s also a riveting foreword by a dog named Chunk (read: Chelsea Handler) and an obscenely funny introductory tome by none other than Wade Rouse. No surprise there.

Thankfully, I was afforded an abundance of time to peruse said book, since I don’t actually have all that much to concern myself with anyway—aside from gnawing on Barbie dolls and plastic dinosaurs, devouring chew toys and cat poop at will, hauling dirty underwear and sweat socks into the kitchen with glee and, of course, whizzing indiscriminately. Oh, and let us not forget those daily strolls on my leash wherein I go apeshit for no apparent reason, unable to pull my sorry self from the depths of despair (i.e. my barking frenzies of indeterminate length and intensity involving joggers, people who smell funny and, occasionally, a freakishly large and decidedly hostile trashcan). It’s all so completely unnerving some days. Good thing I’ve had Wade Rouse’s new book to help me reconnect with my inner dog and get back to being a more loveable beast.

All things considered, I’d recommend Not the Biggest Bitch with every fiber of my neurotic little soul (read: all 14 pounds of cottony, touchably soft fluff).

Sincerely,

Jack

P.S. Wade Rouse plans to donate 10% of the royalties he earns from sales of Not the Biggest Bitch to the Humane Society of the United States, which makes me smile with all my teeth (FYI: lots of dogs smile when they’re happy), not to be confused with the instance wherein I (remarkably, I might add) pooped a smile. I shit you not (see picture). Furthermore, such terrific news fills me with the irresistible desire to piddle upon this lovely floor yet again. An unavoidable circumstance of being a dog, methinks.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (with Mister Jackwagon himself). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.