My Neighbor's Dog Is the Reason I'm in Therapy
Let me paint you a picture. It's 6:47 AM on a Saturday — my one sacred day to sleep past 7 — and Gary, a 14-pound Shih Tzu with the energy of a meth-addled toddler and the IQ of wet drywall, has decided that RIGHT NOW is the perfect time to bark at a leaf. Not a person. Not a threat. A leaf. A single, harmless, autumn leaf drifted past the window and Gary lost his entire mind like it owed him money.
I've tried earplugs. I've tried white noise machines. I've tried reasoning with Gary's owner, a man who genuinely believes Gary is "protective" and "just vocal." Sir, your dog isn't protecting anything. He barked at my Amazon package, my own reflection in your car door, and — I wish I was making this up — the concept of Tuesday.
I don't hate dogs. I want to be clear about that. I hate Gary specifically. Gary is a menace wrapped in fur, sustained entirely by beggin' strips and chaos. Gary has cost me sleep, sanity, and $180 in noise-cancelling headphones that he rendered useless within a week.
If Gary ever goes missing, I didn't do it. But I will absolutely not be looking for him.
← Back to the rage
I've tried earplugs. I've tried white noise machines. I've tried reasoning with Gary's owner, a man who genuinely believes Gary is "protective" and "just vocal." Sir, your dog isn't protecting anything. He barked at my Amazon package, my own reflection in your car door, and — I wish I was making this up — the concept of Tuesday.
I don't hate dogs. I want to be clear about that. I hate Gary specifically. Gary is a menace wrapped in fur, sustained entirely by beggin' strips and chaos. Gary has cost me sleep, sanity, and $180 in noise-cancelling headphones that he rendered useless within a week.
If Gary ever goes missing, I didn't do it. But I will absolutely not be looking for him.