Stockholm syndrome, with a dog

loganmsachon:

I am taking care of the family dog this summer so my parents can go to the beach and be normal retired people, instead of retired people whose lives are ruled by a dog. (It’s also trendy to move back in with your parents, and I like to be on trend.) They’ve been gone for a week, and I’m losing my mind.  The dog is in charge. I traded my life for theirs in a straight up hostage swap. As my mom hugged me before she left, she looked me in the eyes and whispered, “Thank you.” As they drove away, the dog started barking, and she hasn’t stopped.

That’s not entirely true. She stops to sleep, at which point I am afraid she is dead, and I lean over her to ensure that her belly rises and falls. But when she is not sleeping, she is barking. She sits on the back of the couch and looks out the window, like a cat. But unlike a cat, she barks at everyone who walks by: the mailman, the UPS man, a near-constant stream of neighbor children. If it’s quiet outside, she comes and finds me. She barks, sneezes, stares, and coughs, imploring me to take her out, to feed her, to feed her something else because her tastes have become too discerning for dog food.

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If you wanted to know what living with my dog is like, it is the complete diametric opposite of that which Weapon X describes here. Well-written as always though, Logan.

(And “Stockholm Syndrome” is a fantastic blink-182 song. So there.)

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