I don’t care what you say—first impressions matter. And as far as first impressions go, I’m sick and tired of always being introduced as a rescue.
I have a name, and it’s Kip Kipington. Woof.
Obviously, Stacey and Greg (my owners) adore me. Everybody does — I’m a dog. But that’s beside the point. Stacey and Greg just need to stop introducing me as a rescue, parading me around to make themselves look like Mother Fucking Teresa. Is that all I am in their eyes, just Rescue Couture? Obviously, I had a tragic upbringing of being forcefully taken away from my mother by Liam Neeson — I would know — but you don’t have to mention it every single time we’re at Dolores Park, Greg. I know it makes women bestow you with attention you no longer receive from Stacey. But please stop.
I’m not the only one who feels this way. I know at least 8 million rescues in San Francisco that have confided in me. And get this, they all have names — Bradley, Vera, Bradford, Winston, Bradley, Vera and Bradley. None of them wants to be introduced as a rescue, especially Bradley. I don’t get why you humans feel compelled to casually drop that in. Stacey, just imagine if Greg always introduced you as an orphan. If you had an MFA in comparative lit and read Infinite Jest, like I have, you would know how that feels. But please don’t let this thermal indictment derail our relationship — I still want to be the star of your Instagram.
I don’t get why you humans feel compelled to casually drop that in. Stacey, just imagine if Greg always introduced you as an orphan.
Sorry, I got distracted musing about my Instagram fame. Like, remember that time we got 90 likes on that one photo where Stacey’s holding me in front of a yellow wall behind an abandoned Chuck E. Cheese? Most of those likes weren’t even from Stacey’s friends! I’m good, aren’t I? I can’t wait until this whole Instagram side hustle turns into a full-time gig.
Enough is enough—woof. All I’m saying is that I want to be seen as a dog with feelings and a name, just like Bradley. We dogs all have dark pasts that will stick with us for the next two to ten years, until we die. At least spare us these canine-normative labels, which do nothing but reduce us to Byronic heroes that need saving. We do need saving, but anyway, what was I talking about again? I feel like I’m talking in circles, which I immensely enjoy, especially when it involves my tail.
Thanks to Obamacare, I’ve started seeing a therapist. His name is Bradley, and we meet every day on the corner of 18th and Dolores near an artisanal-looking trash can. I confide in him about how Stacey and Greg never listen to me, mostly because they don’t understand Dog. At least Bradley understands. After Bradley and I finish our usual sniffing and peeing and defecating, we go back to our horrible lives as rescues, objects of profound love that receive up to three walks per day from our dog walker, Jerry.
I may never come to terms with my past, but I am treated well, which is a plus, I guess. If this is the price to pay for Instagram fame, so be it — maybe reading Infinite Jest didn’t paid off, but at least I have an MFA. It’s my ticket to writing the next great American bark, my magnum opus that you humans could never understand. But it’s possible if you learn Canine on Duolingo. Woof.
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