A Letter to Newton, My Mentally Challenged Stepdog

Dear Newton,

First of all, I need to make something clear to you.  You are not my dog.  You are Theresa's dog, which means that while she is forced to love you unconditionally, I'm am under no such obligation.  I happen to like Theresa, so I'm pretty much stuck with you.  But my love is VERY conditional, so I believe it's only sporting of me to make a few things clear so you can't plead ignorance when someday I beat you to death with my TaylorMade seven iron. 

Condition 1: Stay the Hell Off My Pillow

It's bad enough that Theresa lets you sleep under the covers, but apparently that's not good enough for you.  Every night, after I've gotten all ready for bed, there you are curled up on my pillow.  MY pillow, Flea-face, not yours.  When I give you "the look", that means you're supposed to move, not look the other way and pretend you don't see me.  When I say, "NEWTON MOVE YOUR ASS!" I know you can hear me because you can hear the sound of a Cheez-It hitting tile from three rooms away.  I've sacrificed part of the bed for you, buddy, leave my pillow alone.

Condition 2: Do Not Under Any Circumstances Piss in the House

Perhaps you've noticed that since we've moved to the new house you've been wearing a diaper.  That's to keep you from, as dog-lovers so adorably put it, "marking your territory" on the carpet, bookcases, furniture, and most recently, a 100-dollar pair of Giorgio Brutini snakeskin loafers.  And don't play innocent with me, my friend.  I know that you know you're not supposed to whiz on things.  Otherwise, when I catch you at it you'd just look all confused, not run the hell away and hide under the bed.  Which reminds me, when you're curled up under the bed and you feel a metal object poking you in the ribcage (it's called a seven-iron, make a note of it), that means you're supposed to get out from there.


Condition 3: You Are Not in Leavenworth, So Stop Trying to Escape

Look, between you and me, if you really want to run away I'll be more than happy to pack you a little backpack full of Snausages and tennis balls and bid you a fond adieu.  Hell, tell me where you want to go and I'll drive you there.  But that would break Theresa's heart and I'd somehow get blamed for it, so let me just explain this to you and be done with it.  If you have to squeeze your head and body through cast-iron bars, that means you're going someplace you're not supposed to.  Like the other day, when our kindly neighbor hunted you down on the next cul-de-sac and brought you home.  Three times.  It makes you seem ungrateful.  What, the Ginger Snaps aren't up to your standards?  The freaking fireplace isn't warming your scrawny backside efficiently enough?  Careful what you wish for, pal, someday no one's gonna come looking for you.

Condition 4: Quit Being Such a Candy Ass

Newt, you are a rat terrier, which means your ancestors took care of their masters (a term which you're obviously unfamiliar with, incidentally) by sniffing out and ridding the farm of rats and other vermin.  You, though, would be more appropriately called a Bacon Terrier or perhaps a Tater Tot Terrier.  If you recall, the only time you've encountered anything like a rat (it was a hamster), you immediately ran into the corner and pissed yourself.  I'm sure your relatives would be proud.  Also, when you're being scolded for one of your many transgressions, be a man about it.  Don't just flop over on your back like a little, well, bitch.  It's pathetic.

I don't mean this to sound like a threat Newt, but if you keep this up, someday Theresa's going to come home and find out that you've "run away and although I spent three hours driving around the neighborhood looking for him, I just couldn't find him anywhere."  I might even put up "Lost Dog" signs just to be more convincing, though there's no guarantee I'll include our real phone number.

Think I'm bluffing?  Piss on my shoes again and find out, buster.

Sincerely,

Chris


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