Dear Dead-Dog

First of all, I want to apologize for lunch today. It was uncomfortable and awkward and not at all like I’d planned. I thought it would be different, I thought it would be nice. I thought it would be like this. You and I sit down, we order sandwiches, we drink water or soda, whichever doesn’t matter. You could maybe get an iced tea. You see where this is going. We get our sandwiches, we eat them. We tell semi-humorous stories, recount semi-amusing stories from our not too distant past between bites of sandwich. We look around the room, admiring how nice the place is. We wonder why we don’t come here more often; we really like the food, and it’s so reasonable! We wonder this in our heads, not out loud. We say this was fun, we say we should do this more often, we say I know I know. We don’t check our watches if we have watches; I don’t, we pay our bill and we leave. That is what lunch was supposed to be all about, doesn’t that sound lovely? But as you know it was nothing like that and it was nothing like that at all and for this I can blame nobody but you and your stupid dead dog. Way to go.

 

Before I really get into this, I should say that I’m not what you call a “dog-person.” I mean, if enjoying turkey sandwiches, telling jokes, and watching the Kansas City Chiefs makes you a “dog-person,” then I guess I am but I am pretty sure that is not what people mean when they say “dog-person.” I think, and I could be wrong here, that being a “dog-person” means you like dogs. That’s not me. I am a “turkey-sandwich person” a “joke-telling person;” I suppose I am, to a lesser extent, a “air-quote person” and I said a instead of an on purpose. To make it funnier. See, that is the kind of fun we could have been having at lunch today instead of having me listen to you crying about your dead dog.

 

I mean, I get it. He’s dead. Your dog is dead. That was the point, I guess, of the whole lunch, to tell me you had to have your dog put to sleep. Well, mission accomplished. Bravo. Hang a banner off of that battleship you call an ass. I get it, we get it, the whole fucking place gets it. Your dog is dead. You killed your dog. That is what I’m taking out of this, that you gave your dog cancer because you hated it and then when it got too sick, sick from the cancer you gave it, then you killed it. Is that about right? I think it is, but am not sure, because I am still hungry because I couldn’t eat my fucking lunch because I had to sit there feeling uncomfortable, saying shit like there there and it’s ok. At one time, I think this is when you were snotting and sneezing and sobbing all over that stupid fucking picture of you and that dumb not-dead-yet dog, the one where you’re dressed as Santa and he’s an elf; seriously, try and be more retarded, at one point I almost said he’s in a better place but stopped myself because what the fuck is that? I mean, what the fuck am I talking about there, with that, that kind of talk? A better place? Your dead dog is in a better place? It’s a better place than that fucking lunch, I can tell you that. Maybe that’s what I meant. Hey, shoot me up with some of that cancer. Anything to get me out of this goddamn lunch.

 

And technically? Technically, you’re not a “dog-person,” either. You’re not. You’re a “dead-dog” person; your dog is dead. I’m just throwing that out there.

 

What I’m saying is, it’s rude. It’s rude to invite somebody to lunch and then cry like a fucking baby all over the place, the whole time, and make that person, the person you fucking invited to lunch feel uncomfortable and shitty and awkward and not even able to enjoy his lunch. I would have liked to have enjoyed my lunch; I am a “liking-to-enjoy-lunch-person.” I have a picture of me and a lunch running down a beach; I would have shown it to you if you would have stopped crying for five fucking seconds. I didn’t enjoy my lunch today however, because I kept having to hold your stupid hand, literally and figuratively.  Because seriously, what was I supposed to do, go ahead and eat while you’re crying and shitting and throwing up all over the place about your dead dog? Come on. Even I know that. What am I supposed to, kind of nod, and sigh and say I know I know in between mouthsfull of French fries? Is it mouths-full? Mouth fulls? I don’t know; that’s another thing we could have talked about. Maybe next time. Maybe next time? Maybe next time, I invite that dead dog of yours, what was his name? Scruffles? Barnaby? Who gives a shit, he’s dead right? Anyway, maybe next time I dig up that dead dog of yours, bring him to lunch with me. Maybe then I can get a word in edgewise.

 

There’s a lot shit I could be crying all over the place about, a lot, but you don’t and didn’t see me doing it. That is because I am not rude like you. I am not a rude fucking jerk like you, is what I’m saying, and I’m just saying that. Maybe that’s why your dog is dead, because you are so rude and such a jerk, ever think of that? I just did. I get it now. I totally get it.

 

Dear Dead Dog,

I totally understand why you gave yourself cancer. I would rather be dead, too, than listen to five seconds of this idiot’s bullshit. I hope you enjoy hell.

Love,
Ben

 

That is a letter I just wrote to your dead dog. And maybe I shouldn’t have said he was in hell; that wasn’t very nice. I also didn’t need to say that your ass looks like a battleship earlier; that was completely uncalled for. And now that I think of it, maybe this whole letter is kind of out of line. I am going through a difficult time right now and am not thinking straight. Maybe we can talk about it over lunch.

How does Thursday sound?

Let me know,

Ben