My Life as a Dog
My Life as a Dog
My dog, DJ, has been giving me strange looks lately—he can’t figure out why I’ve suddenly started sniffing trees, telephone poles, and, of course, fire hydrants. The hydrant’s my favorite: a buffet of canine scents, like a Yelp review of the block. He’s got Facebook; I’ve got the fire hydrant. To each his own, right?
Weird, you say? Weird, I say. Really weird, we all say.
It all started when I became one of those “woke” dog owners, determined to give DJ an equal say in everything. I figured it was time to get with the times—after all, shouldn’t our pets be our equals? It felt progressive at first—until he started reading The New York Times and gave me one of those knowing looks. That’s when things began to spiral.
I should’ve known it wouldn’t end there. The negotiations started soon after. DJ wasn’t content with mere equality. Oh no, he laid down the law: no calling him “dog,” no training, and absolutely no treats unless he specifically requested them. Apparently, I wasn’t allowed to act as his “master” anymore. He’d had enough of that outdated power dynamic. I thought we were still on the same level—until I found myself on the losing end of every negotiation. Every. Single. One.
DJ growled something about “balance in the pack” and proposed a deal: if I lived life like a dog for a week, I’d come crawling back, begging for freedom—and maybe, just maybe, I’d finally understand the struggles of leash life, the anarchy of the dog park, and securing that coveted VIPP spot. I was sure he was bluffing, but curiosity—and maybe a little guilt—got the better of me.
So here I am, sniffing hydrants, barking at squirrels, and even eating table scraps. Turns out, life as a dog isn’t so different from life as a husband—I already beg for S’mores, retrieve garments from the dry cleaners, and kvetch on command. Call me a pro at taking orders.
And you know what? It’s kind of relaxing to have one more boss telling me what to do. I’m tired of responsibility. Let another warm-blooded creature lead the way, scratch my belly, and, best of all, manicure my paws. If I had my way, someone would pick up after me every time I left a mess—just like I do for DJ, whom I affectionately call Mr. Diarrhea. I’m starting to see the appeal of my life as a dog.
But let me tell you, this whole “equality” thing has gotten out of hand. DJ’s smug look whenever I pick up after him says it all—he’s won. He doesn’t even hide it anymore. I can practically hear him thinking, You’re the one who signed up for this, genius. And yet, I’m oddly at peace.
Maybe, just maybe, this whole time, I was the one who needed a little more leash, a little less control. You see, I’ve always had this nagging feeling that the whole “master-dog” relationship was backward. Who am I to tell another living being to sit, stay, or bite the postman? DJ isn’t my child; he’s a self-righteous, delusional furball who could use a breath mint. The truth is, I’m starting to wonder if this whole time, I’ve been the one on the leash.
I’ll admit, though, being a doggy Dad isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. It’s constant headaches, never-ending guilt trips, and vet bills that rival college tuition. At least I have Medicare—so no worries if I swallow a stuffed giraffe or get sprayed by a monk. But the conventional wisdom about dog training? That’s always rubbed me the wrong way—kind of like a creepy football coach. This whole experience is making me realize something. The master-dog relationship should be a partnership, not some tyrannical regime.
DJ, however, seems to be enjoying this a little too much. His smugness has reached new heights. One particularly humbling moment was when I found myself crawling around on all fours, sniffing behind the couch, searching for a lost chew toy. DJ’s eyes gleamed with triumph. The power shift was complete. And the worst part? I didn’t even mind.
This realization hit me like a wet nose to the face: maybe the whole “being in control” thing wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. I’m starting to see the beauty in surrendering a bit—letting go, giving up the leash, and just enjoying the ride.
I want to be the master of no one—especially not DJ, my best friend. I have a vision: a world where no dog serves man unless there’s a mutually agreed-upon vegan treat. A world where no human, canine, or extraterrestrial picks up poop, and every dog has its own toilet. A world where every man, woman, non-binary, and dog are equals.
Free at last, free at last. Thank Dog Almighty, we are free at last! And as DJ sleeps on my side of the bed and I sleep on the floor beside him, I realize that while I may be an idiot, I have a good story to tell at the dog park. And at the end of the day my friend, that's what it's all about.
Weird, you say? Weird, I say. Really weird, we all say.
It all started when I became one of those “woke” dog owners, determined to give DJ an equal say in everything. I figured it was time to get with the times—after all, shouldn’t our pets be our equals? It felt progressive at first—until he started reading The New York Times and gave me one of those knowing looks. That’s when things began to spiral.
I should’ve known it wouldn’t end there. The negotiations started soon after. DJ wasn’t content with mere equality. Oh no, he laid down the law: no calling him “dog,” no training, and absolutely no treats unless he specifically requested them. Apparently, I wasn’t allowed to act as his “master” anymore. He’d had enough of that outdated power dynamic. I thought we were still on the same level—until I found myself on the losing end of every negotiation. Every. Single. One.
DJ growled something about “balance in the pack” and proposed a deal: if I lived life like a dog for a week, I’d come crawling back, begging for freedom—and maybe, just maybe, I’d finally understand the struggles of leash life, the anarchy of the dog park, and securing that coveted VIPP spot. I was sure he was bluffing, but curiosity—and maybe a little guilt—got the better of me.
So here I am, sniffing hydrants, barking at squirrels, and even eating table scraps. Turns out, life as a dog isn’t so different from life as a husband—I already beg for S’mores, retrieve garments from the dry cleaners, and kvetch on command. Call me a pro at taking orders.
And you know what? It’s kind of relaxing to have one more boss telling me what to do. I’m tired of responsibility. Let another warm-blooded creature lead the way, scratch my belly, and, best of all, manicure my paws. If I had my way, someone would pick up after me every time I left a mess—just like I do for DJ, whom I affectionately call Mr. Diarrhea. I’m starting to see the appeal of my life as a dog.
But let me tell you, this whole “equality” thing has gotten out of hand. DJ’s smug look whenever I pick up after him says it all—he’s won. He doesn’t even hide it anymore. I can practically hear him thinking, You’re the one who signed up for this, genius. And yet, I’m oddly at peace.
Maybe, just maybe, this whole time, I was the one who needed a little more leash, a little less control. You see, I’ve always had this nagging feeling that the whole “master-dog” relationship was backward. Who am I to tell another living being to sit, stay, or bite the postman? DJ isn’t my child; he’s a self-righteous, delusional furball who could use a breath mint. The truth is, I’m starting to wonder if this whole time, I’ve been the one on the leash.
I’ll admit, though, being a doggy Dad isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. It’s constant headaches, never-ending guilt trips, and vet bills that rival college tuition. At least I have Medicare—so no worries if I swallow a stuffed giraffe or get sprayed by a monk. But the conventional wisdom about dog training? That’s always rubbed me the wrong way—kind of like a creepy football coach. This whole experience is making me realize something. The master-dog relationship should be a partnership, not some tyrannical regime.
DJ, however, seems to be enjoying this a little too much. His smugness has reached new heights. One particularly humbling moment was when I found myself crawling around on all fours, sniffing behind the couch, searching for a lost chew toy. DJ’s eyes gleamed with triumph. The power shift was complete. And the worst part? I didn’t even mind.
This realization hit me like a wet nose to the face: maybe the whole “being in control” thing wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. I’m starting to see the beauty in surrendering a bit—letting go, giving up the leash, and just enjoying the ride.
I want to be the master of no one—especially not DJ, my best friend. I have a vision: a world where no dog serves man unless there’s a mutually agreed-upon vegan treat. A world where no human, canine, or extraterrestrial picks up poop, and every dog has its own toilet. A world where every man, woman, non-binary, and dog are equals.
Free at last, free at last. Thank Dog Almighty, we are free at last! And as DJ sleeps on my side of the bed and I sleep on the floor beside him, I realize that while I may be an idiot, I have a good story to tell at the dog park. And at the end of the day my friend, that's what it's all about.