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  • Writer's pictureMr. Jamoke

Nobody Has It Better

745 AM: Wake up. 755 AM: Leisurely poop. 805 AM: Snoring on the couch. 10 AM: Demand attention & a butt-scratch. 1005 AM: Asleep again. 1130 AM: Picked up by adult chaperone to go play with friends for 45 minutes. 1215 PM: Lunch. 1225 PM: Asleep. 3-4PM: Haircut and Bath. 4-430 PM: Light exercise and poop. 430-6PM: Sleep - that haircut was stressful! 6PM: Dinner. 630 PM: Start driving dad crazy so that he takes me out and plays soccer with me for twenty minutes. 930 PM: Clandestinely take a dump in the bathtub because it is convenient. 945 PM: Stern sounding mumbo jumbo and finger pointing from dad; possibly related to the bathtub poop. It was still worth it. 10 PM: Asleep in the closet.

My wife made rice and chicken for the dog today because Ace may or may not have an upset stomach. As I sit here and watch little Ace methodically claw the rice out of the bowl so that he can just eat the chicken (the King doesn’t do “filler” apparently), I am reminded of two things: (1) Those shitty all-you-can-eat sushi buffets where they beg you not to just eat the fish off the nigiri & leave the rice. (2) The fact that my two dogs live an absurdly luxurious life.

Free health insurance: Check. Free meals accommodated to your taste preferences: Check. Never worked a day in your life and never will: Check. A robust 16 hours of sleep a day: At least! Get 90% of what you want in life by either staring into my soul for thirty straight minutes or threatening the house with bio-warfare: Check.

I can’t think of a living creature in this world that lives a better life than the American Dog. Last week I went to a wine bar and some curly, terrier-looking dog was sitting on the barstool. Hind legs dangling off the chair and back upright like a real person. Straight chilling. If it had opposable thumbs, I’m sure it would have had a glass of Merlot in its hand. Two weeks before that I sat next to a big dog on the plane. Sitting next to me, in the middle seat, 13E, glaring at me the whole time like: “Who the hell are you and what are YOU doing here?” On Saturdays at the farmer’s market I see at least half a dozen dogs getting carried around in those little baby backpacks or being pushed around in a stroller.

In other parts of the world, the dog is still a dog. It eats bones and leftovers. It lives outside in a dog-house. Occasionally it has to do something productive like herd sheep or scare off an intruder. I wish you all could have seen the look I got from my relatives back in the old country when I told them that my dogs have health insurance. Immense confusion and concern (maybe he is severely concussed?”). You’d have thought I told them that I travel to Mars once a month to be with my Martian girlfriend.

Here in America though, dogs are now the master species. It’s not even close. If it wasn’t for the low life expectancy, I’d trade places with Ace In a heartbeat. Not only would I not have to work but I wouldn’t even need to interact with anyone I don’t want to. Some annoying neighbor approaches me to make conversation. Bark Bark Bark Bark! Go away! You bore me. I would never have to put on pants. I wouldn’t need to operate a computer. I could walk up to random, beautiful women, roll over, and get my belly scratched. Possibly kick out my left leg a few times in excitement. I could come stare at you guys incessantly and have you scramble to figure out what I need. “Do you want a treat? Do you want to go outside and play? Are you in some sort of physical discomfort? Do you just want a belly rub? I’ll give you whatever you want, just don’t poop in the bathtub!” Nah, I just want to watch you squirm. I’m the master species, bitch.

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