Dear Santa: A Letter from the Dog

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Dear Santa,

I have penned several letters to you this year, all of them unanswered. This time, I waited until my human went to bed to use the laptop. Although you can’t read dog, I’m pretty sure you can read Times New Roman.

I have been a very good boy this year. I know this because my humans have told me so, over and over, especially when I’m outside using the potty.

Do you remember that present I asked for last year? A new playmate? And instead of a canine playmate, you bought the kitten they named Miss Whiskers? The one that showed up with a red bow on her tiny little kitten head?

It turns out that kittens are all cute and fluffy at first. Harmless. Tiny. Adorable. And then, before you know it, they turn on you.

Santa, I don’t want bones or chew toys this year. What I would really like this year is this: When you come to drop off the presents under the tree for my people, take that cat back with you. Please. That cat is a total beach. I know this because I heard my human say, “She never comes when I call. That cat is a little beach.”

And she is so mean! She hisses at me constantly, tricking my owners into thinking I’m the one being naughty. If I try to make friends and wag my tail at her, she tries to bite it. Once I bowed to her (yes, I’ll admit I was being sarcastic) and barked, and she whapped me across the nose. What other choice did I have but to chase her throughout the house?

It got me nowhere but chained up outside for an hour. Don’t get me wrong … I like outside, Santa, but the cat lay on the windowsill the entire time mocking me. It stung. I was humiliated. She was smug.

She frames me for household crimes, too. She unrolled the entire roll of toilet paper and left some by me while I napped. I got blamed. She got up on the counter and knocked down the box of dog treats. I know that mice can be a problem in the neighborhood so, Santa, I was merely keeping our home rodent free when I ate them all up. But did they thank me? No. I got a newspaper swat on the rear.

The worst thing, though, is that Miss Whiskers hides. All the time. And when I least expect it, she springs up from her hiding spot behind a door or whatnot and scares me half to death. Twice now, the fright has been enough to make me piddle a little bit on the floor. I bet you can guess who they blamed for that one, too.

As you can see, she has to go.


Cooper the dog

PS: Sorry about the Christmas tree. The beach knocked it over.

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