Dear Damn Baby,
News Flash: When I was a mere eight weeks old, I left my mother (the one who birthed me and fed me), went to live in a new home, with new parents, and started eating out of a bowl on the floor. You have CLEARLY outstayed your welcome here by almost ten weeks...
Mom and Dad keep saying that we are going to be "friends," but... so far, I'm skeptical. I've yet to find anything you're actually good for. You can't throw a ball. You can't give me treats. And, when I try to pay you a little attention by nibbling on your toes, I get yelled at.
Speaking of getting yelled at, I can't so much as bark at the prissy little dogs walking by our house without getting a stern look; but you? You scream like there's no tomorrow, even in the middle of the night.
Likewise, you poop all.the.time, and IN THE HOUSE, at that. Disgusting, and so immature. If I pulled that, I'd be out in the yard for the next three days. But, what do YOU get? Just another toy or even MORE attention.
What has this household come to?