epub My Dog is a Jerk

My Dog Is a Jerk: A Book I Wrote Instead of Getting a Full Night's Sleep

I rescued a one-eyed saluki named Jack. I pretend it was an act of compassion. What actually happened is I invited a yellow menace into my home, he repays me by drinking from the toilet, digging craters in my yard like he's tunneling out of jail, and hearing a food wrapper from three rooms away while going completely deaf the second I say his name. So I did what any reasonable adult would do.

I wrote a rhyming picture book about him.

This is my rhyme-rant, loosely based on Jack, and every word of it is true. He humps legs. He drags his wet backside on my carpet. He presents me with dead things like gifts and I have to say thank you. And somewhere around the last page, against my better judgment, I admit the part I was trying not to say out loud, which is that I love the big idiot and I'd be sad without him.

Don't tell him. He's insufferable enough with one eye and no shame.

• Dog rescuers who signed up to save a life and adopted a furry felon instead
• Anyone who loves a dog that openly disrespects them daily
• People who laugh hardest when someone else admits their pet is the problem
• Dog owners who've cleaned a warm yellow puddle off their own pants

• People whose dog is perfect and has never once embarrassed them in public
• Anyone who has filed a formal complaint about a neighbour's animal
• The relative who thinks the word "jerk" is a cry for help
• Folks who need the book to end with the dog learning a lesson. Jack has learned nothing.

• A gag gift for the friend whose dog is a confirmed jerk-assaurus
• White elephant exchanges where you'd like to be remembered
• Adoption-day presents for someone who just made a wonderful mistake
• Sitting on the coffee table so guests understand what they've walked into

This book gets read out loud, gasped at, and shoved across the room while somebody yells "that is literally my dog." A gift-card has never made a dog owner point at a page and ask how a stranger got into their house.

Maybe you already recognize a jerk dog somewhere in here. You've been nodding since the toilet. So stop pretending you're deciding and put it in the cart, because I have to go fill in the craters Jack dug while I wrote this, and I'd like to feel that the sleep I lost went somewhere.