Dearest Riley Pants:
Just for the record, you’re the best dog in the world, even if you are busily digging through my bag from Michael’s that contains nothing but pipecleaners, googly eyes, and some other craft-related surprises. If I come home tomorrow and you have constructed something a little bit better than your usual Notebook Disaster Surprise, then feel free. Otherwise, bags of clearance craft items aren’t for you, Sir Fancy Pants.
And while I’m writing to you, I should tell you this. I know you’re a big boy now; I get that. I like you not being in your kennel anymore almost as much as you do, I think. But you know what I really like? When you greet me at the door. Even though I may not treat you as such, you are a dog and it’s kind of your job to happily greet me with your little stub tail wagging back and forth.
So, when I come home from dinner, I would really not like to have to hunt for you throughout this apartment. Firstly, it makes me think you’ve either disappeared into the night or that you may be trapped somewhere and can’t get out. Either option is not acceptable to me. Granted, walking into the dining room and seeing you fast asleep on the pillow that’s in your crate is super cute and all, I have what we like to refer to as CRAZY MAD PARANOIA. This means that if I can’t physically see you or notice that you’re breathing, you must be dead. Please keep this in mind next time I come home, okay?
To summarize, Fat Dog, I love you. Please stop digging in things I bring home. Enough with the notebook parties. Act like you’re somewhat excited to see me.
Your faithful owner