Hello, followers! I know you missed me in my long absence, so I apologize.
Oh, no one even noticed I was gone? Well… that’s fine, I guess. I’m not hurt at all by that. I’ve been super busy too, you know. My life isn’t all about you people. In fact, in the weeks since I posted last, I have officially become something I have always wanted to be: a New Yorker.
Yup, Shady and I are cohabitating. We now live in a hundred-year-old Japanese-style Victorian in Brooklyn. We rent the third floor from a cool old lady named Gloria, who didn’t even yell at us for building Ikea furniture until 2am (after dragging several boxes weighing 50+ pounds up two and a half flights of stairs, because we are badasses). The house is full of dust and clutter, everything is old and a little rickety, the radiators are terrifying, and we actually have an above-ground subway train running right through the backyard.
The plusses: I live in New York now, I have enough money to last for a while even before I find a job, and I live across the hall from a friend who gets really excited when I say things like hey, why don’t we spend the whole night watching Vampire Diaries?
But then, there’s Grover.
Grover used to be Gloria’s husband’s dog, and he’s had a lot of different caretakers over the years. Of course, he didn’t choose to specifically torture any of them until I came along.
In exchange for a break in my rent, I’m contracted to walk and feed Grover twice a day. It seems like a perfect deal: I get paid, and I get to have a dog, something I’ve always wanted but have never been able to arrange for myself. Little did I know that Grover would be the worst.
I’ve walked this dog on time every day, played with him in the yard, attempted to bond by sitting with him and petting him and singing to him and telling him he’s a good boy when he (very rarely) does not-terrible things. Grover, who is an adult dog and does not seem to be suffering from any illnesses, has repaid me by pooping all over the (carpeted!!!!) dining room no less than four times, often right after I bring him home from a 45-minute walk in the snow because I want to make sure he’s had enough time to poop outside, because it’s my job and I don’t like failing.
Also, instead of eliminating like a normal fucking animal, Grover has lately begun a process wherein he sort of poops halfway, leaves it hanging out of his ass as he trots around, forces me to clean him as best as I can (eeugh), and then refuses to actually finish the whole business until he is safely under the dining room table again.
Because this animal is not normal. Like the mythical Cerberus, he is a beast that belongs not on this earth, but in the depths of the underworld where his willfulness may be tempered by the awesome power of the gods.
It’s just not right that this stupid labradoodle is shitting all over my New York adventures. I wanted to come here to feel invigorated, with everything new and suddenly possible, like I could learn to be the kind of person who wins and succeeds and doesn’t get run over by life every four seconds. Instead, I’m holding back tears in the freezing cold as I ineffectually beg a dog to shit properly.
I am better than this dog. I am smarter. I am locking him in the fucking kitchen today and he is going to know my wrath, because I did not come here to be obsessed with a vindictive labradoodle’s digestion 24/7. I came here to live, and to do awesome Valentine’s Day stuff with Shady (it’s gonna be epic), and to write short stories in the park, and to skip down the streets and throw my hat in the air like Mary Tyler Moore because this is supposed to by my year. You do not get to shit on my year, Grover. I own your ass.
(But seriously, if anyone in the New York area wants a labradoodle, contact me. We’ll make it look like he just escaped from the yard. Gloria might not even notice.)