To my dearest dog Jimmy,

Six years. Six long years of leash training. Six years of “gentle, gentle, gentle” on repeat like a broken record. And yet here we are, you still convinced that pulling me down the block like a sled dog in the Iditarod is the correct way to walk. It isn’t.

Today was supposed to be different. I strapped you into the car like a responsible parent, seatbelt and all, and drove us to the nature center for a peaceful stroll. Fresh air, birds chirping, me pretending we’re normal. For about five minutes, it worked. Then came today’s nemesis: squirrels.

Those damn squirrels.

Typically, you ignore them and let them scurry away on their merry squirrel business. But today, for some reason, you decided to declare war. Apparently, today was the day of reckoning for all things squirrel.

You lunged, I slipped, and somewhere between the 7,423rd “gentle” command and my whispered prayers, I stopped paying attention. I thought the path was a nice, safe loop. Instead, I found myself wandering into an unfamiliar subdivision, no reception on my phone, and sweat dripping like I’d been tossed into a sauna while dressed in Antarctic gear. I called my husband for help – no answer. I then called my oldest son, who laughed like he was watching Kevin Hart do live stand-up. Meanwhile, I was starring in my own survival episode: Lost in the Suburbs with Satan’s Squirrel-Hating Hound.

After two hours, I realized I was walking through a neighborhood we had lived in years ago. Two hours, Jimmy!! And you? Not even panting. Still lunging at strangers, dogs, and the occasional leaf. You dragged me to my knees in front of a Jeep (thanks to another squirrel), while a kind woman paused her evening drive to check if I needed medical attention. I swear, I was one Ring camera upload away from becoming a meme.

Three and a half hours later, I staggered home. My car was still at the nature center, and my dignity long gone. But you? Still vibrating with squirrel-hunting energy. To add insult to injury, a spider the size of a Buick had set up shop on the garage keypad. By then, all three of my kids had gotten the breaking news, thank you, Valentino Gazette (a.k.a. my oldest).

Finally inside, I collapsed into a scalding bath with enough Epsom salt to preserve a whale carcass. You? You trotted around the house looking for more action.

So, my beloved beast, this is my not-so-love letter. You’ve ruined my knees, shattered my back, pulled every muscle and ligament in my right arm, destroyed my sanity, and publicly humiliated me. And yet, I know we’ll do it again tomorrow. Because apparently, I love you enough to survive hell’s squirrels, neighborhood detours, and spiders on my keypad.

They say dogs are man’s best friend. Personally, I think you’re plotting my demise one squirrel at a time. Tomorrow you’ll still be a menace, and I’ll still be dumb enough to grab the leash.

So yes, I love you. But if reincarnation is real, please come back as a goldfish.

Not sincerely,
Your Mamas