It’s all part of DJ’s grand plan to drive me mad, lock me in the Cuckoo’s Nest, and claim my house, car, and hockey card collection. Some “best friend." Between his smug little grin and penchant for chaos, DJ has perfected the art of pushing me to the brink of insanity. If I hadn’t bought him for $500 from that blue-bearded farmer with the peg leg and eye patch, he’d still be out in the sticks, gnawing on pigs’ feet and dreaming of wireless access.

If not for me,

You wouldn’t eat roast beef—

At best, pigs’ feet.

So appreciate all my meats,

Savor my smelly liver treats

All because of me, just because of me

And yet, despite all I’ve done for that eating machine, why do I still feel buyers’ remorse 14 years after my “shrewd” acquisition? Let me walk you through a typical day, and you’ll understand.

It starts every morning with the pitter-patter of paws down the hall—his nails clicking against the hardwood floor like a tiny percussion section. First stop: my room, right next to my bed. DJ whines just loudly enough not to wake my wife.

Then comes the pièce de résistance: the “I’m so cute” look—or, as I call it, the Mask of the Devil. He tilts his head just so, ears perked, eyes big and imploring. For a fleeting moment, I almost buy it. Almost. But I catch myself. I stick out my tongue and mutter, “Oh, go (profanity) yourself.” There’s no way I’m ready to face this frigid day at this ungodly hour.

DJ, of course, is undeterred. His next move? The butt wiggle—a weapon of mass destruction, surely licensed by the U.S. military. I groan. He’s broken me again.

Reluctantly, I crawl out of my warm and toasty bed on this blustery, frigid winter morning. Blindly, I grab some clothes off the floor and stumble downstairs like a drunken cowboy. My crusty eyes are glued shut with dried tear-duct goop.

As I shuffle toward the garage door, flailing in half-blind desperation, my hand smacks through a spiderweb. A sharp nip follows. I hope it wasn’t poisonous. I don’t wanna die in winter when gravediggers charge double.

I slap the garage door opener, and the icy air stabs through me like frozen needles. Even zombies would call it a hard pass.

Just as I think I’ve won, DJ bounds down the stairs, ready for action. But as soon as a gust of subzero air hits him, he yelps and scrambles right back up.

I stand there, stunned, as the garage door rumbles shut behind me. My zombie shuffle miraculously reverts to human form—dorky but functional.

Following the familiar pitter-patter of paws, I find DJ back in his cozy corner on my son’s bed. He’s already snuggling beside him. My son, half-asleep, lifts his arm and pulls DJ closer, mumbling, “You’re so cute.”

I stand there, watching this cozy winter morning scene: my son and my dog, two innocent conspirators wrapped in love. The chaos, the mess, the insanity—it all seems worth it for moments like this.

“Sleep, little angels, sleep,” I murmur, feeling unexpectedly sentimental. Wiping a tear with my flannel sleeve, I hum a corny yuletide tune. A Viking who fears nothing—except his wife and that smug little dog who owns my soul.