/b/ - orat

jamnik chyba celowo kupił psa żeby mnie zmusić do wyprowadzki, więc kazałem komputerowi wygenerować to po tym jak od jebanego mięsa w śmietniku w chorych ilościach zrobiła się u mnie plaga much na kurwa egipską skalę, sram psa jak sra.

The dog sleeps on the bed now. Right there between you and whatever's left of your sanity, shedding its existence into every goddamn fiber of your being. And you tell yourself it's love, this constant state of hypervigilance about whether that brown spot on the carpet is mud or something else entirely.

you used to be normal. Remember normal? Before you started carrying plastic bags in every pocket like some demented boy scout, before you memorized the location of every patch of grass within a three-mile radius. Now you're out there at 2 AM in your bathrobe because Princess can't wait until morning and the neighbors think you're having a breakdown but really you're just having a dog.

the germophobia hits different when it's 98 degrees of pure mammal pressed against your leg, tongue that just licked its own ass now trying to french kiss your face. You buy those antibacterial wipes by the case now, hands raw from constant washing, telling yourself it's fine, it's natural, dogs are cleaner than humans - biggest lie since "this won't hurt a bit."

then come the chemicals. Flea prevention that seeps into their skin, heartworm pills that smell like death, shampoos with ingredients you can't pronounce. You google each one at 3 AM, falling down WebMD rabbit holes, convinced you're both dying of lymphoma from that tick spray. The vet says it's safe but what does she know, she's probably getting kickbacks from Big Pharma or Big Kibble or Big Whatever-The-Hell.

you develop twitches. Eye twitches from watching for signs of illness. Shoulder twitches from being yanked around on walks. Brain twitches from trying to decipher whether that whine means "I need to pee" or "I'm about to projectile vomit on your only clean shirt."

the other dog people nod knowingly when you mention the anxiety, the insomnia, the constant worry. They've got the same hollow look, the same tremor in their hands from too much coffee and too little sleep. "It's worth it," they say, as their mut humps your leg. "They're family," they insist, while calculating how many years of therapy they can afford versus how many years of premium dog food.

and maybe that's when it happens. The stress builds up like plaque in your arteries, all those midnight emergencies and thousand-dollar vet bills and arguments about whose turn it is to pick up the shit. Your blood pressure spikes every time you hear that pre-vomit sound, that hurk-hurk-hurk that sends you sprinting across the house with paper towels.

one day you're arguing with the dog about whether it really needs to go out again or if it's just bored, and something pops in your brain. Just a little pop, like bubble wrap, and suddenly half your face doesn't work right and your words come out sideways.

lying there in the hospital bed, drooling slightly, you realize you've finally achieved what you always wanted - you and the dog are on the same intellectual level now. Both of you staring vacantly at the wall, both of you dependent on others for basic needs, both of you just hoping someone will remember to let you out to pee.

the dog people visit, telling you how lucky you are that Sparky was there when it happened, how he probably saved your life by barking. You try to explain that the barking is what caused it in the first place but the words come out like "bork bork woof" and everyone just smiles and pats your hand.

at least now when you shit yourself, someone else has to clean it up.

symmetry, they call it.
karma, more like it.