“We need to have a party for Sammy,” my fiancée told me, stroking our mutt’s disconcertingly soft fur.
“Uh, why?” I love our dog as much as a man can, within the strict parameters of the law. But hosting a pooch party seemed like a flimsy excuse to get plastered— and I don’t need another reason to get intoxicated. “It’s the first anniversary of Sammy’s adoption,” she said, gazing into his saucer-like brown eyes. “And he’s in his forever home.”
“So you’re proposing a dog birthday party?” I replied, shuddering visibly. She nodded. I shuddered again. This wasn’t a conversation; it was an instruction. “You do realize we’re becoming the people we once hated?” I told her. Dog birthday parties are a wan imitation of a toddler’s b-day bash, like having sex with a plasticized love doll. Continue reading