Dear Ms. Howard,

What’s wrong with you? On too many occasions has your “animal” (I’m not convinced he’s not an actual demon) ruined playtime for my adorable Teaspoon Pomeranian, Teeny-Weeny. I’ve enclosed a photo of my incredibly well-behaved pup along with a lima bean for reference to his size. Isn’t he cute and impossibly small?

Clifford, on the other hand, is a legitimate threat to public safety, and just really annoying.

How is it that every other parent is capable of picking up after their pet except you? After your last incident, the park was closed for two weeks, and the surrounding block was forced to evacuate. I hear it’ll still be another six months before they finish decontaminating the groundwater. I mean, did you really have zero plan to dispose of a thousand pounds of waste a day?

They call it a dump truck for a reason. I implore you to get one and spare us from another of these most unnatural disasters.

Speaking of, his barks shake the earth with the force of an earthquake, and his tail generates sustained winds perilous enough to be classified as Category 3. He swallows tennis balls like they’re morsels of kibble, and I once saw a dachshund narrowly escape from being gobbled up like a literal hot dog.

Don’t try to defend him. There’s no denying every pooch flees in abject terror when they catch sight of your ten-foot-tall behemoth. I flee too. (So please excuse my handwriting here, I am running for my life.)

Now, compromising our playtime is one thing, but I don’t mess around when it comes to canine health for the entire dog population of our town. When wittle T. W. needed a rabies vaccine, I was informed there were none left because Clifford had been given the vet’s annual supply to account for his extreme, disturbing body. I don’t know how you can think your pet is more important than so many others.

Actually, scratch that. A foaming-at-the-mouth, crazed-eyed, bus-sized crimson beast is the last thing I need. (Can’t wait to recall that image as I try to fall asleep later.)

Here’s a suggestion: since your twisted love curse is what made him grow into this monstrosity in the first place, try loving him less. Maybe if you cut out the treats and cuddling, he’d shrink back down to normality. In the meantime, you can redirect your love to my T. W. He is truly deserving of all our admiration for his minimal, considerate existence.

Can’t we at least agree Clifford belongs somewhere with plenty of wide-open space, where he’s free to chase after a ball without people screaming for their lives? I’m thinking Antarctica or the moon. Do it for his sake, but mostly mine.

If you are unwilling to move your elderly-man-named dog at this time, I ask at a minimum that, since he's as large as a house, you dye his fur a color approved by the official Birdwell Island HOA Guidelines: like cedar tan, dusty white, or one-drop-above-white gray. The red is an eyesore, plain and simple. It’s the least you could do for our tired community, who’ve been putting up with his (gargantuan) shit for far too long.


An owner of an itty-bitty fur baby that doesn’t resemble a mega-horse of the apocalypse,

Casey Peta