Dear Dog,

It finally happened. Three weeks ago, the men in the white coats came in and took you away. They separated you from us, and they separated you from yourself. You lost your manhood, or at least your dog-hood. Never again will the world be cursed with your horrific brood. The vet and his team chopped your nuts off. It went down like a scene from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Nurse Ratched took you away and we figured you’d come back docile as a lamb. But you went willingly, strutting with your tail in the air. After the deed was done, the lack of doggy testosterone appeared to take the edge off of you, but you fooled us all. It was just the calm before the storm.

You were chilling on the sofa when my daughter left the front door open while she went to get the mail. You must have had it planned. You saw the fat old lady walking her Pomeranian, the same old witch that you bit last spring. As soon as you saw her, you snapped like a cheap rubber band, ran out barking and snarling, and preceded to dry-hump her little dog right in front of her. If that wasn’t bad enough the teenagers next door cheered you on, filmed the scene with their I-Phones and uploaded the damn thing to the Internet.

The fact that your balls had been removed made no difference whatsoever in your behavior. You took it as license to leg-hump our unsuspecting neighbors like a sex addict with a bad case of cabin fever. The only difference is that now you are shooting blanks. You must have taken it as a blessing that you would never be encumbered with puppy care, so your urges became even greater. What could be worse than a narcissistic male with no responsibility?

We tried lessons and obedience training, but the trainer refunded our money after an hour. The situation was serious. The old bat next door, who has always hated us, started a petition with the Home Owners Association to get rid of you, and we were secretly worried that one day you’d wake up in the trunk of a car driven by a guy like Frank Booth from Blue Velvet. He’d take a big whiff of nitrous oxide, shout that he’s going to write you love letters, put lipstick on and then leave your ass for dead, the suave fucker!

So, naturally, we had to take action and bring this rambunctiousness to a halt. So I pulled out the only trick I had left in the book: a remote-controlled electrified-shock collar! Once false move, and I’d zap your sorry ass with over 100 watts. It was cruel, but so was what you did to the Pomeranian. The system came equipped with six different levels, and it didn’t take much for you to realize that the table had turned. I put the collar on you and let you out to the garden. You looked at me, smiled with your bright white dog teeth, smiled, and lifted your leg to douse the last remaining rosemary bush with fresh dose of steaming piss, and I let you have it. The old number 2 was so strong that it stopped your wiz in mid-stream. You ran in panic-stricken circles until you came into the house to hide in the basement. I’d finally bitch-slapped you into submission!

To be continued…

Cross-posted at My Ongoing Struggle with Misanthropy: http://jimmygabacho.com/?p=762

Gabacho– according to the Dictionary of the Spanish Royal Academy– is derived from an old Provençal word “gavach,” meaning a person from the foothills of the Pyrenees who spoke incorrectly. These days, it means “outsider,” somebody who just doesn’t fit in.

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