Dear Baby,
You think you’re so special, don’t you? Look at you, sitting there babbling to yourself like a damn lunatic. Dadadada. Would you please shut up with the Dadadada? Everybody thinks it’s so special that you can make a bunch of noises nobody understands.
You know who else can do that? Me. But when I bark at that stupid beagle for getting too close to my yard, everybody’s all like Stop it, Judith! or Bad, Judith, bad.
You know what you could do to impress me, baby? You can go pee-pee or poo-poo in the yard like a damn good girl, instead of in those things our British friends call "nappies." Yeah, you didn’t think I’d go there, did you? Well, here’s the thing, baby: I’m sick of your shit.
Things used to be good before you got here, baby, back when it was just the three of us. We used to go for walks and play fetch and sleep until noon. Then you came around and decided we needed to get up when farmers do.
And I’m not the only one who thinks that way, baby. They do, too. Trust me. They may not say it, but I can see it in the dark circles under their eyes – eyes that were so full of hope before you showed up.
Do you know our DVR is 76 percent full? Seventy-six percent! Do you have any idea how sad that is? We haven’t even seen “The Night Of” yet, baby! You oughta be ashamed of yourself! My humans never used to let the DVR get past a quarter full, but there’s no time to watch our shows with you. Apparently it’s too much to ask for you sit nicely in your soiled diaper while we watch “Shark Tank” as a goddamn family.
Yeah, yeah, I know it’s not the greatest show, but we watch for research purposes, baby – because you’re so goddamn expensive. We study the entrepreneurs’ pitches to the Sharks hoping it sparks our own billion-dollar business idea. Then maybe we could pay for all the shit we’ll need for your noncontributing ass.
Every time you yank on my ears like you’re some cowboy bucking a wild horse, all I hear is It’s OK, Judith or She doesn’t know, Judith. Well, you know what, baby? I think you do know. You may have them fooled with your poor motor skills and your inability to control your bowels, but I'm onto you. You know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you, baby?
Well, guess what? I’m about to let you in on a little secret. These humans really, really wanted me. They did research online, and sent lots of emails and paid $1,000 in cash money to a one-legged man named Lloyd just to bring me here.
What about you, baby? How much did they buy you for again? That’s right. Nothing. In the words of the great Dean Wormer, “Zero Point Zero.” And that’s not all, baby. Not only did they get you for free, you wouldn’t have even been here at all if they didn’t go to Italy, drink too much wine, and lose track of ovulation days.
I want you to think long and hard about that the next time you’re smiling that stupid toothless smile of yours, baby.
I see you staring at me, baby, looking down at me from your ivory tower of a high chair. You should see yourself, face covered in the remnants of some pureed mixture of organic fruits and vegetables (only the best for you, baby), a pile of Cheerios on your tray.
Now you’re holding Cheerios out toward me. Real nice, baby. Tease the creature who has to eat the same exact thing for each and every meal. Well, I’m not falling for it, baby. But you seem so serious, like you’re actually going to drop those Cheerios on the …
Well, I’m pleasantly surprised to report you weren’t teasing me. Not only did you share, you also gave me way more people food than my humans usually do. Last count, you dropped 27 Cheerios on the floor for me.
Maybe I was a bit quick to you judge you, baby. Don’t get me wrong, I still think you’re annoying as hell and even though all of that stuff I said earlier was technically true (especially that thing about you being unplanned), I may have been a little harsh. Maybe, just maybe, we can come to an understanding.
Maybe – and God help me for saying this – maybe we can even learn to become friends. You just keep sharing your food with me, and we’ll see where this goes. Speaking of which, how about some more of those Cheerios.
Love,
Judith, The Dog
Jared Bilski
Author