Death Dog

Okay, so my mom and I had this conversation earlier:

Mom: “So is giving away one of their dog’s puppies and Ryan’s pestering me to take it.”

Me: “I don’t see a problem with it. I mean, Ryan and I like puppies; when that puppy turns into a dog in a couple of months, we’d all be thinking in retrospect that, perhaps, we might as well have gotten an old carpet and a jar of fleas because that’s what the dog’s going to be like at that time.”

Mom: “I know, but it’s really nice…”

Me: “What breed is it?”

Mom: “A Rottweiser…”

Me: “A what now?”

Mom: “A Rott-something! It’s black and it has huge paws…”

Me: “A Rottweiler you mean?”

Mom: “Yes!”

Me: “Oh you got to be fucking kidding me!”

This is going to be nothing but trouble. Don’t get me wrong here–I like dogs as much as the next dog-walking faggot you see in Eastwood or whatever but a fucking Rottweiler? A dog that is at least four times stronger than I am and, at will, can bite my face off? I don’t think so buddy boy.

You’re probably thinking: “This Mike Villar character is scared of big dogs, what a pussy!” and you probably wouldn’t be wrong in thinking it. I hate big dogs. Yes. I openly admit that I am in fact scared of any animal that weighs at least half as much as I do, a territorial carnivore and has a set of teeth designed by God to shear the flesh off of anything that looks/smells like food. But while we’re in the whole admission/confession thing, I have another confession to make: I totally boned your mom last night; it was rough and I didn’t wear a condom. Also your dad cried while he watched so I performed fellatio on him just to shut him u–no, wait!

Seriously, the reason why my mom and brother wants to have such a terrifying creature as a pet is beyond me. I mean my mom probably wants to have a pet that would do a yeoman’s job at protecting the house from would-be thieves and entertaining guests but a owning a big dog is sort of like owning a gun; you take care of it, you walk with it and clean it every day then on one of those crazy New Year’s eve parties where you get totally drunk and crazy at home, you get into a really nasty accident with it and you’re left with your face screwed up beyond recognition.

Besides, as far as house guests would go, who the hell finds big dogs “entertaining” anyway? I mean little yorkshire terriers named Fifi, sure; but gigantic face-eating dogs named Fletcher The Destroyer of Worlds and Eater of Faces? Not so much.

I do, however, recognize that my fear of huge dogs probably stems from my childhood. When I was a kid of around nine or ten, all of my friends around the neighborhood had huge, scary dogs. One moment I was playing a terrible Street Fighter 2 port for the Nintendo Family Computer at a friend’s house and the next, I was sitting up straight paralyzed with fear as I stare down a German Shepherd with its testicles dangling; the dog licking and sniffing the shit out of me; praying that should it choose to take a bite off of my face, it should go for the left side of my face because the right side is sort of like my “good side” and it looked good on pictures.

(By the way, German Shepherds have the cleanest looking balls as far as dogs would go. Check them out the next time you come across a Shep.)

Anyway, since my mom and my brother are pretty much decided on owning a Rottweiler, I will now start taking a shitload of pictures of my face because I give my face two months before it’s pawed off by the beast my family decided to keep as a pet.

I mean think about it, by the time the Holiday festivities start, this puppy would probably have turned into a 200lb monster that will not take kindly to an overweight guy lumbering around the house eating Koko Krunch in the middle of the night and generally being either extremely hungover or piss drunk.

Pray for me guys. Thanks.

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