I Hate Dogs

I have to admit something. I hate dogs. Fully, one hundred percent hate them. There is a certain taboo against that in our modern society but I don’t mind; in fact, I revel in it. Old Yeller is not a sad story. It is a tale of pest control.

I don’t mind if you have a dog if your livelihood depends on herding sheep, or you love hunting foxes or raccoons or something. I understand terriers are excellent at keeping rats out of granaries. If you have a St. Bernard who rescues people in the mountains, more power to you.

But let’s face it, your dog is not out there saving drowning sailors. It is sitting in the living room of your home doing nothing. Dogs are like the bad parts of having children, with none of the good ones. They are all the messy stories (“Fido ate a bird and then vomited it up on my bed!”), the inability to socialize with anyone except fellow dog owners, the unhealthy attachment.

People actually use the term “fur baby” unironically. If that is not a sign of something messed up I don’t know what is. Dogs are not babies. They are the descendants of the weakest of the wolves who scraped out an existence by scavenging from cavemen just long enough to reproduce. Over the years, only the most cringingly subservient genes survived until dogs became the slaves you see today, unable to survive without humans.

If I have seen it happen once, I have seen it happen a million times. Someone procures a dog in an attempt to buy love. Then they transform from interesting, alert people to fur-covered shut-ins, emerging only to take their dogs for a walk, shuffling along with their dog’s still-warm excrement clutched in their fist.

One of the most depressing things I have ever seen happened right here in Cincinnati, and I believe it is common across the country. It is called the Pup Crawl. Actually the Pup C is the second most depressing thing. The most depressing thing is the Reindog Parade, which occurs every December. Here is what happens in the Reindog Parade: people put reindeer antlers on their dogs and then they all walk through Mt. Adams. They shut down streets for this.

Anyway, the second most depressing thing is the Pup Crawl. Get it? Yes, it is a stupid punny name. Among the attractions: dog tattoos, a“ Pup-Paw-Razzi” booth, and stupidest of all a Puppy Kissing Booth. No wonder America isn’t great anymore. I am pretty sure Abraham Lincoln wouldn’t have been caught dead within ten miles of a Puppy Kissing Booth. If you asked one of the soldiers who stormed the beaches of Normandy on D-Day if he wanted to get his dog a fake tattoo, he would have laughed in your face. But now our soft and weakened countrymen flock to such stupid amusements.

You might be wondering how dogs hurt me personally. Well, I will tell you. I am an active person often found on the sidewalks of my fair city. Often, I see someone, often a petite girl whose pulling ability maxes out at twenty-five pounds, coming towards me with two Irish Wolfhounds, or possibly Bull Mastifs. Clearly the sidewalk is not big enough for both us.

What does this owner do? They feebly flick their fifteen foot leash, like that is going to shift these giant brutes. I inevitably have to run off the sidewalk, with nary a passing glance from the dogwalker.

Hang out with any dog owner long enough, and you will soon learn that their once expansive vocabularies atrophy to a collection of dog-related cliches. Among these cliches are these old favorites: “No, don’t jump on our guests!” “He’s never does that usually”, “Pitbulls are so sweet!”, “What did you do to make him bite you?” and of course the old favorite “We have to leave early to let the dogs out.” Their own pristine homes become decrepit dog huts, all surfaces covered in a thin film of dog hair and the stench of a wild animal.

It is no surprise that dogs sometimes wear out. What is shocking — especially in a world where poverty and starvation run rampant — are the lengths to which people with go to fix their canines. Otherwise normal people will spend thousands on fixing their dog, even though the dog will die anyway in next to no time. I kick myself every day that I never got into the animal healthcare racket.

Like, do you know how many dogs you could buy for that twenty-five hundred you spent to fix your dog’s pancreas? At least twenty-five. Even at the rate of one a year, you would still have enough dogs to last until 2042.

Someday video games will become amazingly lifelike and people will forget about dogs. That will sort of be a sad day, because likely everyone will jettison their few remaining human relationships as well in order to play Skyrim or No Man’s Sky or whatever, but at least the scourge of dogs will be gone and I will be able to run the empty streets in peace.

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