I’m a born Alpha. I could run down a deer in thirty seconds. I could easily ward off any rivals, have sex with every female in the pack, and pass my superior genes onto future generations, permanently improving my species. In a just world, I would be a legend, remembered by millions of future dogs as an icon. Stories would be told about my adventures, thousands of years hence. Millions of puppies would be named after me.  I would be the Hercules of canines, looked on as a dog-god. Instead, I lay on this fucking couch 18 hours a day. The highlight of my day is being fed some rotten swill, made with chemicals and additives that are unfit for animal consumption. The only exercise I get is trying to catch the miserable piece of rubber, filled with holes, that used to be a ball when they bought it for me two years ago. The only excitement I get is when they turn on an animal documentary on National Geographic. The only time I get any fresh air is five minutes outside a couple times a day so I can take a shit. Don’t even ask me about why I can’t sire any pups. Don’t get me wrong. I like my co-workers. They pet me, and sometimes they give me decent food off their plates. The little ones, particularly, are cute. But I could be so much more than this. I could be ruling a pack, hunting and providing, admired by my comrades, feared by my foes, and lusted after by attractive females. I could be the biggest badass in the animal kingdom. There is so much potential in me. Instead I am stuck in this dead-end job, living a sedentary, boring life of naps, food, and shit, followed by more naps, food and shit. I will say that my life expectancy would probably be about four years before I was killed by a younger, stronger rival.  And sleeping in a den in fifteen-degree weather doesn’t sound comfortable.  Also, deer can kick the shit out of you. The only threat I have to deal with now is the vacuum cleaner.  The couch is pretty soft, and I do like watching Animal Planet. Maybe I should stick with this job for a while, but I am going to ask for a new ball, and I want that fucking Roomba gone. 

By The Best Boy