Blame it on Thelonious

They say a dog is a man’s best friend. I have a dog and I can tell you from first hand that they are wrong. They are probably scrubs and losers with no discernable friends to begin with. They probably played with those magic cards in elementary school or own the “Lord of Rings” book and DVD series. They don’t have hilarious friends. I’ve had my dog for the better part of the last three months and can tell you that my best friends still are my best friends. Thelonious, the name of my bum ass dog, still, and will always remain, my dog.

However, my bum ass, stupid ass dog has grown on me. Before you start thinking about how fucking adorable that is, keep in mind that the phrase “has grown on me” is going to turn out to be as cute as herpes. I’ve become accustomed to him pissing me off, and I don’t think I’d have it any other way. As crazy as it sounds, being pissed off at my dog at all hours has reduced the amount of stress in my life. As I type this, my dog is sitting in the kitchen barking for no fucking reason. In moments I’ll be forced to get up from my desk (well, my $15 dollar foldable table from Target) walk over to the kitchen and calm him down.

“What the hell are you barking for?” I’ll ask as I walk into the kitchen. He’ll look up at me with his tail wagging waiting for me to untie him and let him roam free around my apartment while I write.

“You know you’re not even supposed to be here, keep barking and I’ll be forced to put you out,” I continue. “If Brittany hears you (the manager of the apartments), she’ll be pissed that you’re here, but more because I’m slick enough to sneak a dog into my place without paying the $500 deposit.”

“WOOF!” he’d bark, with that stupid ass look on his face. I’ll then pull my hand back, and he’d sit down, with his tail still wagging as he looks at me blankly.

“I don’t think there is any way you could be less intelligent. You’re presence is intellectually unsatisfying,” I’ll say, hoping he understands me, but he won’t because he’s a dog, and dogs don’t speak people. “You know I’m not recession proof, $500 would pretty much bankrupt me. This recession is your fault – you bastard.”

“WOOF! WOOF!” his dumb ass would bark, then I’d be forced to threaten to murder him with the frozen orange that’s been cooling in my freezer for about as long as Thelonious has been a roommate. Then he’d stand back up and try to jump on me, forgetting that he was tied up, then be jerked back by the leash, reminding me of how stupid he is. “WOOF!” His bum ass would continue, forcing me to smack his nose, which would invariably be followed by a whimpering “bark” and him understanding what the hell I want him to do.

“People ask why I haven’t taught you to sit yet, and I tell them it would be a waste of my damn time because you’re a dog, and dogs are stupid,” I’d say, knowing how much I verbally attack him, he’ll still love me. “I’m going to go back to my table, because I can’t afford a desk because of the recession you’ve caused, and you’re going to sit here and practice shutting the fuck up.” Then I’ll come back to my table, and finish writing this damn blog.

In a phone conversation with my sister about a week ago, she asked if I loved my dog, and I said, “no.” This is the truth, because I do not love my dog, I actually hate him, but this is not a bad thing. I need to hate my dog in the same way that my dog needs to chase birds every time I take him outside to take care of his business. I once wrote that I believed that hate fueled passion, and you needed to be passionate to love, and you needed to passion to live. Without hate, I would not be able to live. Hate, I could argue, is much more important than love. Love is not necessary to live, because it is a passion, and passions are fueled by hate.

I need my dog because he reminds me of things I love that I may have otherwise been taking for granted. Like my love for not having children, my love for a clean apartment, my love for peace and quiet and my love for inspiration. My dog serves as birth control, a cleaning mechanism, motivation to get my ass to a library or book store and the inspiration to write something like this. I know that I’m going to be able to compare my hatred for my dog to my hate for other things like the Denver Broncos, Chingy and what television has become.

As much as I would love to take him to some orchard and bust his head open with that frozen orange, I know there is no way I could because I need him around. He makes me appreciate everything I have, and that’s what’s most important in this economy that he’s created because the things we don’t have are going to remain the things we don’t have. I may have a stupid ass dog, but I have so much more than that and you do to. And if you can’t realize this, then maybe you need to go out and get yourself a stupid ass dog too.