You think it's funny to capture me on camera. That my glowing eyes and perfect tuxedo are entertaining. Or that my heartbreaks are fodder for supermarket tabloids. I may poop in a box full of sand, but you humans walk dogs who have to make in front of their peers. And then, you pick it off the street. Who's the silly one? I may not be as big as you or walk on two feet unless you try to make me disco dance. My drool may stink up your blankets and salt your yogurt (melikes the strawberry), but I don't have to work. I sleep and eat and knock things over. All I ask is that you let me have some privacy as a public persona. Allow me to raise my adopted international children in peace and go without panties. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to eat my own hair.
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