Over twenty years ago, you asked if we could get a dog—your first. I’d grown up with dogs, and I agreed that if you took care of it then I’d support it, but I didn’t really want one myself. I know how demanding they are, and I like my independence.
 
We're now on our second dog, and I cannot wait for it to die.

I am so hungry for a life free from the constant begging for attention, the hair, the stink, the shit, the puke, the expense, the ever-present third wheel, the inability to simply park the car in the sun, and the right to lie on my own sofa without getting up coated with fur.
 
Yes, it’s a handsome and loving animal and I can’t wait for its absence. If that makes me a monster, fine.
 
But you've now officially transitioned into dog person. The dog affords you companionship, distraction, affection, amusement and non-work responsibility. It needs you desperately. It helps your depression. It's such a constant presence wherever you go that it is practically your brand. People associate you with that dog far more than me, your husband. Your plans to get a "bridge dog"—a puppy to revitalize our old pet—means another 8- to 15-year commitment. I was 42 when you asked my permission. I don’t want to imagine myself still dealing with this literal shit in my eighties and nineties, but that’s what you intend to saddle me with.
 
This is a supreme act of accommodation, of extreme GGG ... or a hostage taking. You want a dog, and I’ve accommodated you, but I have reached my limit, honey. I never intended my consent to be a permanent, perpetual, eternal agreement to a life with dogs, and I have told you this unambiguously. I want a dog-free life, even one goddamn dog-free year. But you won’t even consider it. I’m fucking trapped with fucking dogs. Forever.
 
If you died today, I would be truly broken and my grief would never end. I never want to be without you ... but this dog would be gone the next day.

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