Dear _____,

We’ve been together for about a year now, but I cannot do this anymore. It isn’t you—it’s your dog.

Baxter was such an adorable little puppy when we first started dating. His soft paws and floppy ears were so cute that it was easy to overlook his indiscretions. However, you cannot say that you didn’t see this coming. After offering to watch him one day when you were at work, I drove an hour to bring him back to your place early. He had peed in my house three times that day and pooped twice.

You insisted that he was only a puppy, and needed to be taken out regularly. I tried to be patient and take him out every hour, but the little demon would just sniff on the grass and want to play. After waiting for twenty minutes, with nothing more than a dribble of piss on the lawn, I brought him back inside. I only left him alone for a minute, while I used the bathroom; but a minute was all it took for him to leave a trail of poop nuggets all over my living room carpet. Not only did he wait to poop inside, he made a game out of spreading his feces over as many square feet as possible.

If you ever asked me to choose between you or Bobby, I would be gone before the Resolve on your carpet dried from Baxter’s last "accident."My reprimanding may have gone too far. He whimpered and quivered in fear as I shouted "Baxter, No! Bad boy!" I think he even peed a little.

But that was months ago—8 months, to be exact. Now he is 16 months old. I thought he would grow out of the phase, but he has only gotten worse. He graduated from chewing on my hair to chewing through personal documents, underwear, door frames, and designer sunglasses (not to mention anything edible left within reach). He even chews on my dog Bobby’s legs!

RELATED:  I'll Never Forget You or Your Wild Accusations, But I'm Still Moving Out

Dog hugging another sleeping dog

He has woken us up on countless nights from the smell of his crap on the bedroom floor. You and I have both lost innumerable hours of our lives scrubbing his diarrhea out of the carpet.

I recommend crating him in the evenings and when we leave him and Bobby home alone. You, however, insist that this is cruel and unfair. You also claim that because Bobby sometimes sleeps in bed with us, Baxter shouldn’t be excluded. I beg to differ; Bobby’s behavior is exemplary. Sure, he sheds profusely, but he doesn’t chew on anything that isn’t given to him and he NEVER "goes" inside. He’s had accidents, but only under extreme conditions and when he’s been sick or injured. He always lets us know when he has to go.

I would never ask you to choose between me and Baxter. If you ever asked me to choose between you or Bobby, I would be gone before the Resolve on your carpet dried from Baxter’s last "accident."

This morning was the last straw. While Bobby had nimbly leapt to the bed, landing peacefully between us, at 4:00am I was awakened by the weight of Baxter’s leaden feet pouncing on my chest—all 60 pounds of him. Then there was the smell of steaming shit hitting my olfactory receptors like Anderson Silva’s foot to Vitor Belfort’s face.

We had to open the window to mitigate the putrid smell. It was twenty degrees outside, and the cold only added icy insult to the diarrhea-induced injury. After a 30-minute, joint poop-scrubbing effort, all I wanted to do was get back to sleep. Unfortunately, your mentally challenged dog had not only shit on my floor, he had stepped in it as well. I soon discovered that my bedding was covered with giant, crappy paw prints.

RELATED:  The Vacuum Scares My Dog, and Damnit It Scares Me Too

I have been at work since 7:30am. It is now 2:00pm and you are probably taking an afternoon nap. I am on my third cup of coffee and at my wit’s end. How nice it must be, having no professional commitments. How nice it must be, getting 8 hours of sleep every 24 hours. How nice it must be, not worrying about the cost of professional carpet cleaning!

I realized, about forty minutes ago, that not only do I hate your retarded dog, I hate you for subjecting me to it, under the guise that he would somehow improve. You misled me into believing it was a temporarily shitty period that "would pass." The only thing that has passed is more methane from your dog’s asshole. I am now convinced that this hole is the gateway to hell. I don’t know if I am sicker of his gas or your bullshit. I hate the way you insult my perfect Bobby when you get defensive about Baxter’s "missteps." Most of all, I hate the way everyone else seems to think your ugly, smooshie-faced dog is more awesome that my kick-ass pirate dog.

Kim Jong-Il boxer dog lookalike

Find someone else for your demonic dog to terrorize. This relationship is over.

Cheers,
Hope

P.S. I’m keeping the dog dishes and the Chuckit.

Suggested next: