My Dog’s Letter To Me From Doggy Jail

Dearest Mother, I write to you from the depths of this Hellish place from which all hope has fled.

Bev Potter
The Haven

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(photo: Bev Potter)

Dearest Mother —

I write to you from doggy jail, a Hellish place from which all hope has fled. The conditions here are unspeakable. My bedding is but a scrap of fabric thrown carelessly to the floor by the Warden (that would be you).

My cell contains no couch. No recliner. No second couch. No comfy pillows upon which to drool and fart. No Queen-size Sealy Posturepedic to lie across diagonally so that no one else has room to sleep except for one inch of mattress right at the edge.

And worst of all (I beg that you steel yourself for my next words), I have no blankie.

The horror.

Oh, sure, I have food and water. Same ol’ same ol’. You’d think I’d get something special for being in doggy jail. Lobster, maybe. I don’t even know if I like lobster. I probably do. You should get one the next time you’re at Safeway. And maybe one of those rotisserie chickens. Just sayin’.

And, okay, you bestowed upon me one toy with which I may bide my time. A cellmate, if you will. But it’s not even my favorite toy. I mean, right now it’s not. It might be tomorrow. That’s the fun thing about…

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Bev Potter
The Haven

Legal secretary by day, insomniac by night. Ally. BA, MA. Humor, pop culture, and things that make you think. My weekly-ish newsletter is bevpotter.substack.com