Something tells me my dog wants to kill himself. Recently his behavior has been getting worse and worse.
I got home one day and he had slit his doggie wrists. “Bad dog!” I yelled at him. “It’s down the road, not across the street.” Then I bandaged his wrists, but not before rubbing his nose in the pool he left on the couch. Luckily, it’s a red couch. I guess I should be pretty impressed that he found any wrists at all, him being a dog.
Another time I caught him on the 10th floor of Evans, weakly pawing at the new Plexiglass barriers. I would’ve let him out, but he’d been outside all night, barking at the edge of the Golden Gate bridge.
He also likes to bury things. Stuff like his inhaler. I once caught him burying his Cure albums, which is strange because he listens to them all the time.
Just yesterday he was chewing on a bottle of aspirin when I came back. It was a childproof bottle so he never really had a chance at it. It’s even more pathetic when he tries to turn the oven on.
I caught him going out at night and having unprotected humping with all sorts of beagles. That’s not really suicidal, I guess, because there is no Doggie AIDS or anything, but it’s a sure sign of low self-esteem.
I’ve also been finding a lot of really bad doggy poetry all over the place. “Arf arf… arf arf? Woof woof arf bark bark.” I know it sounds really cute to you and me but I’ll bet it means “Here is the knife that’ll end my life” in dog.
He never communicates with me anymore. He doesn’t want to chase a ball or roll around on the grass. All he ever does is sit in his Dogloo updating his LiveJournal under his user name “Canis Doloris.”
There’s another sign, too. Playing fetch shouldn’t involve that many highway crossings.
Finally, he’s really begun hanging out with youngsters I don’t like, especially that Harrison boy down the street. His parents just bought him a yellow Trans-Am and he’s been nothing but a little hellraiser ever since.