My Father Paid More Attention to His Dogs Than to Me

Whenever I see someone walking a dog down the street my face turns into a Tortellini and I start to feel like I’m 9 again and about to protect an insecure kid from being punched in the back by a future crack addict bully on the playground.

I think this might have something to do with the fact that my father, when he was alive, paid more attention to his dogs than to me, and now whenever I see one with an owner I get jealous and secretly think they should be walking and petting me.

Add to this soft serve spiraling pile of disgust that they make leashes for kids nowadays, and it shouldn’t be a canned surprise that upon seeing a dog, or any pet, a part of me gets ready to bark, and drag his backside across the carpet.

From the driveway nobody sets a foot inside, I lift my little asshole, Tortellini-faced snout into the air and yell at the world for not noticing that I’m here.

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