I hate myself. I hate myself because I'm one of those people--you know, the kind who love my pets conditionally. I've been battling Tigger ever since the wood floors were installed a month ago over who's in charge at this house. Tigger didn't want new floors. Tigger didn't like the change. Tigger peed on all the rugs, carpet, anything he could pee on.
I sit here crying because I hate myself for taking away Bianca's best friend and leaving him in a cold, sterile place where the sound of dogs fighting permeates through slivers of doors. I hate myself for signing all the papers, paying $25 even, and then telling the guy across the counter what a good boy he is. I hate myself for sitting here crying over this stupid dog that I've never even liked, who stunk, that I would nudge away when he would settle his warm body on my lap. I hate myself for checking The Humane Society's web site to make sure they're marketing him correctly. Because I want to make sure someone adopts him and knows that he likes to chew only on The Dog toys (pups) from McDonald's Happy Meals we used to buy on ebay so that he could chew the eyes off, then the collar, then each ear, the leather nose, the stuffing, until it was a little scrap of fabric that could FINALLY be tossed into the garbage. I left a full bag of brand-new pups with him at The Humane Society and the blanket Bianca sewed him. I want him to find a new family. I want him to be happy. I guess I proved who's in charge, but I hate myself for it.