Listen Drooly, I'm Going to Sue

To the canine beast that bit me last night: I am going to sue you, Drooly. You crossed the line, mutt, and you will be held accountable for your misdeed. I spoke with my attorney (the esteemed Len Finklin) and he shares my sense of outrage, for $200 an hour. We’ll see you in court.

What’s that you say? Woof, woof, WOOF? Ha, I’m sorry, but I don’t understand your primitive beast language. Like any non-terrorist, I speak the tongue of Lady Liberty. All I’m hearing right now is guttural gibberish. You can object all you want, but I refuse to repeal my lawsuit. Oh, and now you’re playing the old "Crotch-Lick Card," eh? You’re pathetic.

Did you really think you would get away with it? You’re even dumber than you look, which is saying a lot considering you lack the cognitive capacity to see colors. But after what you did to me, you don’t DESERVE to see colors.

I don’t have a perfect recollection of your attack, but my identical twin Terry informed me of the facts. In my festive mindset, I playfully wrestled with you. And yes, I did apply a painful (to sissies) submission move: the figure-four leg lock, popularized by "The Nature Boy" Rick Flair. But I had the decency to break the hold once your cowardly yelping began to drown out the thunderous pop of Def Leppard on the stereo. And how did you repay my act of mercy? By biting my right buttock and making my hiney gush blood. You son-of-a-bitch—and I mean that as an insult, not as an obvious acknowledgement that you’re a male and mother dogs such as your own are termed "bitches" in Webster’s dictionary.

My attorney Len Finklin has informed me that our dispute has garnered the attention of P.E.T.A. At the risk of overloading lame puns: those traders of humanity are barking up the wrong tree. We’ll bury them like one of your precious bones. You consented to that figure-four leg lock; the proof is on tape. Prior to twisting your hind legs into a "4" shape, I had the decency to tell you to bark seven times if you objected to a wrestling match. And you did not. You barked EIGHT times.

What’s more, you were ordered to tap your paw repeatedly on the carpet if the pain became too much to endure. Unlike me, you were not victimized, Drooly. No, you willingly participated in some playful roughhousing—playful, at least, UNTIL YOU BIT MY ASS! That was a bit of a buzz kill, let me tell you. I was awakened the next morning by the searing sting of hydrogen peroxide being poured on my right buttock. Terry then showed me the tape to jog my memory of the incident. (Sure, I had shot-gunned my fair share that night, but I wouldn’t use the words "blacked-out.") What I saw will someday soon chill the jury to the core of their souls. In mid-celebration dance (a number I refer to as the "Pelvic Earthquake"), you took a cheap chomp at my backside and metaphorically peed on my fantastic buzz with your inferior dog pee.

True, there is little precedent for lawsuits such as mine. In cases of dog attacks, the human owner unjustly receives the brunt of the charges. This tendency is an outright rejection of the self-deterministic values that helped found this great nation of ours. There is no denying it, Drooly: dog or not dog, you are responsible for your actions. If you dogs want to eat man’s table scraps and slumber on man’s couches, you better abide by man’s code of justice, too. The doggy door swings both ways, mutt. My grievance is not with your owner and I have no intentions of suing him. Only a complete fool would sue himself.

As a longtime pet-owner, I am fed up with the brash outbursts of the creatures I have granted a home to. For instance, Puzzwhether, the potbelly pig I used to own, once vomited all over my brand new sneakers, all because he couldn’t hold his liquor down. I wasted $120 because that smelly swine has a low tolerance for whiskey. That incident was infuriating, but it pales in comparison to your bloodthirsty rampage, Drooly.

The jury will almost certainly rule in my favor, and in the wake of their noble verdict, you will be ordered to pay restitutions. Now, I am by no means delusional enough to expect you to enter the human work force in order to earn money to pay for my physical and psychological torment. Although your PETA sympathizers might disagree, there is no place for dogs in the human workplace. As penance for savaging my right buttock with your teeth, you will be tethered to the lever of a red wagon and forced to pull me to all my various destinations. For three solid years, whether I require transport from the couch to the bathroom or from my kiddie pool to a back alley cock fight across town, you will act as my flea-ridden chauffeur. During our voyages, I will also harass you with taunts from a megaphone. If this punishment seems harsh, you should consider the retribution my twin brother Terry had in mind. Simmering with rage, he initially suggested we put you to sleep. "Put you to sleep" is a nice way of saying he wanted to suplex you off the top of a parking garage. You’re lucky I’m more merciful than my equally-handsome
counterpart, Drooly.

And how do you show appreciation for my lenient gesture? By getting fed-up with what you might consider a "nonsensical tirade" that is approaching 1,000 words and lunging for my throat with your salivating fangs? Well scoff, I guess that’s gratitude. If I survive this mauling, you can bet the jury is going to hear about this, too.

(Editor’s note: Dogs can’t read, Captain Silly-Pants.)