Dear humans of Portland,
As the elected ambassador for the city’s dog population, let me state our position as plainly as possible: You are fucking killing us with your fireworks.
Walk a mile on our paws: On a normal day, your time would be spent begging for food, napping on an ottoman, and licking your genitals. But today something is different: The family leaves the house without warning, and as darkness falls, there is a brief silence… before World War Fucking III breaks out.
Explosions pierce your highly attuned eardrums. Burning, rancid smoke permeates your nostrils. The high-pitched whistling of rockets flies past your window. And you? You are alone—frantically trying to take cover beneath a mid-century-style IKEA sideboard. You cry, shake uncontrollably, and beg for a quick, merciful death.
THE FEAR IS SO INTENSE, EVEN GENITALIA LICKING OFFERS LITTLE SOLACE.