All Dogs Go To Hell

I keep not writing a story (or a novel, really) about me and my old dog. I mean, I write stories about me and my old dog, but there are so many stories and there’s so much confusion and so much meaning and so much realization that I can draw from my years as a young dumbass with a big, smelly dog that I can feel a story brewing. Kinda like a zit that you gotta pop. Like the kinda zit you invite your buddies into the bathroom to watch you pop.

My dog was nothing more than that. He was a fuckin dog. An old friend of mine who I’m certain remembers me far less often and far less fondly than I do him had once stated that “All Dogs Like The Butthole Surfers”. He may not even remember saying this, but I remember it. Hell, I’ve adopted it as an idea of my own.

Here’s why:

My old dog wasn’t very noisy. Good dog. Fuck noisy dogs. The only time I ever heard that dog howl was when he’d sing with the violins at the tail end of “Creep In The Cellar”. Not being a howler, he’d kinda gurgle instead. And he’d get embarrassed. You had to kinda look the other way or leave the room, otherwise he wouldn’t do it. But he’d do it. That dog liked the fuckin Butthole Surfers.

And really, who doesn’t?