Listen up dog, things have got to change. Because after last night, you are lucky that I am not packing you up and dropping you off in the middle of some random farmer’s field, leaving you to be some bitch or bait for the nearest coyote, wolf or fox.

Quit looking at me with those puppy dog eyes dammit. All right. So it’s a blatant lie, everyone knows I would never leave you to be raped and eaten by a hungry wild critter. But keep up the shit you pulled last night and I promise you I will start buying the cheap dog food. You know the type…tastes like sawdust, makes you shit like you’ve never shit before.

That’s right Nixon. See who wears the pants around here? And those doggie treats I keep buying for you, you know, the ones you love but give you wicked gas; gas you have no problems releasing when your ass is inches from my nose, those treats are gone.

I mean business.

You see dog, I did my time getting up at all hours to check on small children. I put in my hours feeding and changing babies. They’ve grown older. And, dammit, so have I. One of the perks of your babies growing older is that they sleep through the night. And piss in the pot. Not all over the damn floor.

I may call you my baby, rub your belly and stroke your fur, but it’s only a term of endearment. You aren’t really my baby. You’re my dog. I picked your scraggly ass out of a litter and paid good coin to have you shit on my floors sit on my lap. Unless science figures out a way to squeeze a four-legged critter that is in desperate need of a nail clipping out of my old and abused uterus, you need to stop abusing your powers of the puppy dog eyes and cuteness and cut this momma a break.

Did you really need to sleep all damn day like a teenager and then pace the entire length of the house all night long? You know I’m a light sleeper. Your little claws clicking on the hardwood and tile were like Chinese water torture for me last night.

Did you really need to jump up on the bed incessantly, flop down for two seconds, thereby lulling me into a false sense of security and then jump back off the bed to resume your midnight pacing?

What ever happened to my sweet Nixon, the one who would bury his ass by my face and sleep the night by my side, snoring like a lumberjack and farting all night long? Remember that? I would squish you and shove you and curse at you and you would just burr in closer? Always with your ass in my face? Those were the good nights. How I miss them.

Did you really need to jump up on the window and pretend to be ‘Tough Dog’, barking at the deer, moose, dog, cat, bear, fox, squirrel, bird, facking boogey man or whatever was on the other side of the glass and start barking like a rabid idiot?

News flash Nixon, we live in the bush. There are animals out there. They’ll eat you. So shut up at night or I’ll send you out there and see how big your shrunken raisin testicles really are.

Did you really need to whimper at the door, whining to be let out, not once, not twice, but three times last night? And each time I stumbled my sorry, naked, freezing ass to the door and let you out, you did NOTHING. You sat and stared at the sky. While you communed with the heavens, I sat on the couch in the complete darkness, shivering and wishing I were back in bed.

Do you have any idea how cold tile floor is in the middle of the night when you are standing in front of a door, naked, waiting to let in a damn dog? It’s cold, dude. REAALLY cold.

And with all three trips you took outside to stargaze, did it not cross that pea-sized brain of yours to say, oh, go to the facking washroom? Was it really necessary to shit right beside the front door, where I almost stepped in it in the darkness? You couldn’t have gone during one of the times I let you out? What the hell do you think I drug my sorry ass out of bed for in the first place?

Hint dude: It wasn’t so you could howl at the moon.

I love you Nixon. I really do. Ask the Internets. They’ll tell you I call you the World’s Greatest Dog, Ever. Because in my eyes, you really are. You helped take all that pain and heartache I carry and make it all a little less heavy. You sit on my lap at night and snore softly and my heart grows three sizes, just like the Grinch.

I even think it’s funny when you growl at Boo when he tries to move you so he can sit next to me.

But Nixon, I’m only one man’s bitch and his name is Boo.

So quit with the shit at night or I’ll feed you to the fishes lock you in the laundry room at night. Face it, neither of us wants that.

But mess with my beauty sleep again and I’ll show you just how well this bitch wears the pants.

Update: The letter seemed to really work. Heh, heh. Last night he was as good as gold. Seems he really does know who is boss. Ya, I know. I’m delusional.