by Doggedly Philly…
I hate being human. I hate traffic, I hated politics, and I hate TV. Most of all though, I hate having to have a job?
No other species on Earth has to have a job. The eagle in the sky doesn’t. Neither does the bear in the woods, or the dolphin in the sea. There are certain drawbacks, however, to all this freedom. The eagle is vulnerable to windmills. The bear can find himself in a pickle if all the salmon dry up. Even the smartest animal in the ocean, the dolphin, is susceptible to fishermen now and then.
Still, I’d take my chances with the tuna nets if I didn’t have to have a job. I was sitting back one night when suddenly it came to me: the type of animal I would like to be. It was just after walking the dog, picking up its poo, and serving its dinner that I realized: Why, I want to be a dog, of course.
You know what? If aliens from outer space came down to Earth, it would be a dog they’d approach first. Any sensible spaceman would just assume it was the canine who ran the show. Who’s to say they’re wrong?
So I did it; I became a dog. It was a lot easier than you’d think. All I had to do was strip off my clothes and off I was to greener pastures.
The best part was, there were no rules. I peed wherever I wanted. I peed on trees, I peed on cars, I even peed on my next door neighbor, Old Man Crenshaw. There was pee everywhere, coming down like rainwater.
There were no rules. I shat all over the neighborhood. I shat when I wanted, where I wanted, as often as I wanted. But that was just the beginning.
The best part is: a dog can lick its own balls? Dick, too. I don’t think I have to expound on the benefits of that, All I can tell you is I was in dog heaven. I ate whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and scratched myself all day long. Aah, the scratching. Such bliss. And the butt sniffing? It’s not as bad as you think.
Then there were the women, canine and human alike. They were all over me. And guess what? When you get horny—when you’re a dog—you can do it right there in the middle of the road. The Beatles were right. I was fucking all up and down the block and no one ever said boo.
The truth is, dogs have carte blanche to do virtually anything they want. They have the right of way on most all busy streets. They can even commit murder by killing a cat or a raccoon or even a possum, there really aren’t any repercussions at all. No wonder they call it, “a dog’s life.” The only thing a dog cannot do, however, is bite a human. I did not find this out until it was too late.
Okay, so I bit Old Lady Nussbaum. It’s not like she didn’t have it coming. She’d been asking for it for years, and when she went at me with her broom, well, I let her have it, fangs and all. Apparently, you’re not supposed to do that: bite a human.
Now, they got me in a holding cell down at the city pound. I’m a jailbird. Me. It’s not so bad, though. I got a room all to myself, there’s this nice lady comes by and pets me now and then, and they feed me once a day. But the best part: I don’t have to have a job. Still, no job.
Not sure how long I’ll be here. The dog in the cage next to me says we’ll be out of here by week’s end. Says he heard the nice lady talking about sending us some place where we’ll get a nice long sleep. Maybe a hotel. I sure hope it’s nice. One with room service, perhaps. That’ll show Old Lady Nussbaum.
About the Author
Philip Loyd loves fat chicks and cheap beer, though not necessarily in that order. His first novel, You Lucky Bastard, is represented by New York Literary Agent Jan Kardys. Loyd lives in Dumbass, Texas. Find out more about Loyd at http://PhilipLoyd.com
Support your fellow author by sharing this story through social media… Rock on!!!