Who are you? It’s a complicated question, isn’t it?

Are you Sam, devoted father of two with a job overseeing seven regional grocery stores? Are you Ellie, the 21-year old computer science major with a dream of one day dancing on Broadway? Go ahead. Try to answer. I’ll wait.

Me? I’m not fancy like that. I do not wake you up in the mornings when you’re trying to sleep. I do not howl to the heavens when you try to give me a bath. I gratefully nuzzle your arms while you watch bad television until 3am while tossing me the occasional snack morsel.

I am, plain and simple, a good dog.

So then why is my identity constantly under attack?

“Who’s a good dog? Who is a good dog? WHO IN THIS ROOM RIGHT NOW CAN BE CONSIDERED A GOOD DOG?”

Me. The answer is me. Your best friend. Your little muffin. The one you so often call “Pooch”, even though it’s well-established that my name is Moosey.

I merely ask that you offer me the dignity you would extend to your friend Brooke, when she had that meltdown last summer. You spoke in declarative sentences: “You are a good person. You’re better than this. You will bounce back.”

I am a good dog. I will not lower myself to fight for the title which I have heretofore earned through my proven track record of good dog works. I only lower myself when it’s clear that I really wanna play or go for a walk.

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