Fucked

           “Fuck.” That's the only solution: keep saying, “Fuck! . . . Fuck!!!  Fuck!! Fuck!!!” It doesn't solve anything, but maybe it'll make me feel better, so I kept saying it, loud; “Fuck!” There are problems with solutions, there are problems without solutions, and then there's me, the fucked. I'm a dog. I'm back in the pound, the same pound I was in last time when these idiots rescued me. Wouldn't having a dog be fun? Then, they punished me for being a dog. They put me in a cage for digging a hole after I pooped, they didn't play with me and then punished me for trying to play with them while they're on the computers. Why did they want a dog? Because that's what “rich, normal people do. They get married, buy a home, own a car, and save a dog from a local pound. Doesn't that sound stoic? Well, that's great, but if I have a few accidents, try to play, or get scared during a storm, then it's back to the pound with me. Part of me I glad though. Some people think a dog's age is calculated by multiplying our age by seven. So, if I was six years old in regular years, I'd be forty-two years old in human years. But, this isn't true. A Chihuahua year is different from a Dobermin Pincher year since Dobermin Pinchers are bigger dogs, but it isn't doing to matter soon, since I'm a Jack-Russel Terrier who's nine years old. But, the pound's going to decide how long I live, no God, but euthenasia. 

           I could be wrong. God knows I've been wrong before, like when I put my head out the window and tried jumping out the crack just to see what the breeze would feel like all over my body. I was too big to make it through and got yelled at.  At my first owner's, we watched, The Price is Right, and What's his face always ended the show with, “I'd like to remind you to control the pet population, get your dog spayed or neutered”. Well, my idiot first owners got me neurtered, but I wish my mom or dad had been neutered or spayed. It's just, you get to know the owners, you let them pet you, you sleep in the same bed as them, and you think you're safe, and then they turn around and slap you in the face. “Fuck!” 

           Then, I realize the solution. I see the light at the end of the tunnel. The solution is to go mad. Not mad like rabies, mad like insane. Who cares? I'm just a jack. When I was in the pound last time, I thought a lot about this, but didn't have the tools. Fuck 'em. They're not going to put me to sleep. I'm going to put myself to sleep. Fuck 'em. So, I start in the grocery closet. This is a dangerous place. Then, I see it; bags inside of bags inside of bags. My previous owner always kept me away from these bags, because they said it would fucking kill me. You'll choke to death. So, I jumped into the bags. The bags made a crinkling sound. But, it feel's like nothing's fucking happening. I can breathe, air's coming through the bottom of the bags (I can't tie the bags closed since I don't have opposable thumbs), and I keep breathing. Talk about anti-climactic. 

           So, I get my owner's attention and beg to go outside. You know the drill. Go to the door, whine, look to the master, look to the door, etc. So, the girl got the leash. She'll get in trouble, but you cares? She doesn't care enough about me to save me from the pound, so why should I care if she gets in trouble for letting me die. I go to the tree near the curb and I tug the leash free of her grip. I'm free and I run out on the road, but there aren't any cars or trucks. It's empty pavement the way my life is an empty road. The girl runs after me, grabs my leash, and brings me back inside. She yells at me, her parents yell at me, they take the food and water bowl out and put me back in the cage. Great. I wish the holes on this cage were covered. And it isn't that I want to die, but if I'm going to be put back in the pound anyway, I'd rather do it on my terms. 

           After two hours, they take me out of the cage and put the dog food and water bowl back on the ground. Some dogs would've scarfed down the food, but I didn't. Maybe I can starve myself to death. Anything but euthanasia. Can you imagine what it's like to be sitting in a cage while you hear your friends screaming in freight from euthenasia. I'd rather go on my own terms. “Fuck”. 

           But, the shit's always browner on the other side. I talked to other dogs the last time I was in there. I heard stories of their masters pouring oil from the frying pan onto them for being bad dogs. This is where the rejects go. 

           But, on occasion, somebody would come in and fall in love with a dog and take them home and they'd be saved. And I thought this would be my last home, but I heard the parents talking. Some people don't know dogs have increased hearing. Think about the dog whistle. We can hear that. So, I heard them talking and they said they'd have to take me back to the pound since it wasn't working out. I didn't have chemistry with anyone. Fuck. 

           So, considering my age and all I've been through, I think this is the best. I just need to find an easy way to die. The sad part for me is nobody cared, nobody cares, and nobody is going to care. Son-of-a-bitch. Then, it happens. These humans come chasing after me. I try to escape by finding a circle, but two of them corner me so I can't escape. It's over. My whole life. It's over. “Fuck!”

           They put me in a cage and put me in their car. It's over. They stop the car after half-an-hour and they get out and take me and my cage out. But, as we go inside, I smell and even though I smell other dogs, I don't smell the sanitation sprays of a veteranarian. Then, they take me out of the cage and ask these people, “You're here to see Angela, right?” Angela must be the veteranarian that's going to euthenize me. The father says, “Yes.” Then, there's a silent pause while they wait for the vet. 

           But, then a lady brings out a small peach pomeranian puppy. She sniffs my behind and I sniff hers and, after a few minutes, I'm able to mount her. The humans seperate us (bastards), but then they put me back in my cage and put her in a smaller cage and put us both in the car, they get in the car, and we start driving in the direction we came. I'm not going to die? But then, why were they talking about putting me to sleep? Why? Life is a strange place.