Willie Nelson really wants me to start a Bark Box account.
“It’s not for me,” he says. “It’s for Ginny-Nanna. She’s getting older, and it would be so nice to spoil her with a treat in the mail every month.”
“Right,” I say back. “You wouldn’t be interested at all in the treats and toys that would come in the box.”
“Well,” he replies. “If she asked that I, you know, break in a chew toy for her or make sure the dog treats aren’t poisonous before she tries them, it’d be rude for me to tell her no.” He pauses a moment to lick his genitals. His gaze darts up to mine. “You wouldn’t want me to be rude.”
“You’re gross. Stop that.”
“I’m a dog.” He shrugs.
“We’re not getting Bark Box,” I say. “It’s nineteen bucks a month for the cheap box. I’m not made of money, you furry fool.” I scratch him under the collar. He groans in pleasure, like a monkey who managed to nab a lit cigarette at the zoo.
“That’s called a hug.”
“And she drools on my kibble while I’m trying to eat. And she uses Ginny-Nanna as a stepping stool.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “And did you know she doesn’t even bark at the mailman?”
“The mailman you want to bring you treats in the mail every month?”
He ignores this comment. “Fifty bucks, poof! Gone! Just so the little scream machine can eliminate! If you would train her to go out-of-doors like me and Ginny-Nanna we could afford the DELUXE Bark Box! Think of all the treats and balls and bones and toys for me, me, me!” His tail is out of control at the thought, rocking his body back and forth so violently he’s teetering on the edge of falling over.
I coax him into a sitting position so he doesn’t hurt himself. “You mean for Ginger, right? You want the Bark Box for her.”
“Yeah. For Ginny-Nanna. Hey, where is she, anyway? I haven’t chewed on her ears in like, ten minutes.” Resumes licking his genitals.
“We’re not exchanging Alice’s diapers for a Bark Box.”
He abandons his genitals in favor of chewing on his tail while muttering something about favoritism and the agony of being placed with an unjust and cruel family.
“What’s that, Willie Nelson?” I demand, hands on my hips.
“Nothing,” he mutters. He stands up and stretches, farting a little as he does. He sticks his nose in the air and sniffs. “Smells like disappointment.”