“Oh God,” I think to myself, curled up in a fetal position, with my elbows touching my knees and my couch gobbling me up, with its big fat unaligned cushions, one of which, is a gentle kick away from falling down. The tribes of rare African lands, are drawing symbols out of human skulls, bones and bloods, on national geographic and I have been staring at it, before all else, for twenty long minutes. The first five of which, were captivating, by the tenth, it was disgusting, by the fifteenth, I had to look away and chew a candy bar to better my taste, but now, at this moment, my eyes cringe, even if I shut them tight.“I mean, can you believe this? This is absolutely horrendous.” I bark. “I know right”, says my dog. “If one knows, that this could happen to them once they die, they should die somewhere else. At least I would.” I say. “You have”, he corrects me. His head is resting on the ground and he is crunching his empty food bowl, like it’s a packet of crisps or wafers, once every minute. He looks upset, or maybe it’s just his face, but since he doesn’t want to make it obvious that he is upset, he is just agreeing to whatever I say. I throw the remote controller off to the other corner. He kicks his food bowl. “I am tired man” I yell. “I am tired man”, he imitates me. “So what should we do now?” I ask. “Well, why don’t you tell me how is everything in your this life, or otherwise?” he asks, pushing the cold water glass towards me; it has ice-cubes in it. I feel I am sitting in a lonely bar, talking to a random bartender, sharing my grief. “Everything is fine, except the one, who bosses me, he is kind of a jerk”, I say. “Well bosses can be jerks”, he replies. I sense a clear underlying tone of sarcasm in his voice. I stare at him questioning his statement. He stares back. He has puppy eyes—even though he has turned into a grown ass scary canine—and I used to give a fuck about it earlier, now I just give a fuck less. I walk up to my fridge. He comes running behind and peeks. We both are looking at my eating options, but I have a feeling, he thinks, we are looking at his eating options for the night too. But then he is a dog, so what does he know. I grab almond cake. He reaches out for milk bottle. I drop it back. But he doesn’t. So I snatch it from him and put it back in the rack and grab myself a chocolate bucket. I also shut the door on his face. He kicks the stand of the fridge. He is clearly upset. “Don’t do that again” I warn him. He doesn’t say sorry, but his head hangs low, so I am sure he regrets it. I see his paws, they are hurt and he is in a slight pain. “Well, you know what? … Good. You were kind of being a jerk!” I go to the balcony and try to cut my spoon deep in the chocolate bucket. But it’s frozen, so my spoon doesn’t really go in. I bang it against the wall. It still doesn’t loosen up. So I bang it again—harder this time. “It’s not the ice-cream’s fault that it’s frozen, you know”, says the fluorescent green creeper, brushing my arms, tenderly, mockingly. “Then whose fault is it?” “Are you angry? Why are you angry?” “You know … I wasn’t sure if I was angry, but thanks for asking, now I clearly am.” I punch the wall. “At what?” asks the adjacent plant, planted in a pot. It’s a withered money plant, and quite ironic to its name, has its entire existence in shambles. “Something from yesterday or the day before yesterday, that I can’t recall now, or something from tomorrow that hasn’t come yet. I don’t know … Stop asking questions.” “Is it about the one who bosses you. Is he really that big a jerk”, the creeper keeps its creeps on my shoulders, really desperate for a response. “Well, jerk is not the right or even remotely close a word to describe him. He is more of an asshole.” “What is an asshole?”, asks the tiny creeper innocently, his creeps have not reached the fence yet. He is barely six weeks old. … And I don’t like it, when I have to explain the explicit rated R, terms to tiny creepers. So I dodge his question, pretending to have not heard of it. But then he insists, and touches my arms and asks me again—coy and endearing. “What is an asshole?” I lose my temper. Maybe this was the reason, why I was so angry at the ice-cream bucket five minutes ago. Maybe, I had seen all this coming. “Well an asshole is an asshole. Asshole.” I shout. He leaves my arms and goes back to the fence that he coiled out of. He still doesn’t know what asshole means, but he knows, that I Am angry and it wouldn’t take me a second, before I plug in my lawnmower or grab garden scissors and chop his head off. The ice-cream has melted. But the cherry on top, looks at me with pleading eyes, as if, he doesn’t want to be eaten. So I toss him in the bin nearby. My dog runs up to the bin and digs out the trash, looking for the cherry. “What the hell are you doing?” I bark again. His snout is covered in trash. He looks up from the bin and says. “Well … I am cherry picking … for you”. “Don’t. I don’t want it.” “So can I have it for myself then?” he asks. “What are you? A Fairy? What kind of Pitbull eats cherry?” I just rhymed and I am slightly ashamed by the sound of it. I hear noises from outside; a car being pulled over, dragging footsteps, a couple quarreling over something unknown. They are almost here. The dog shakes. “Dude, they are here, and they will know this time.” He jumps around. He is panicking. Okay what do I do then? “Go inside the ugly toy I pulled you out of, go in, go in now!” I don’t like dogs ordering me. But they are here, so I step inside the toy and latch it tightly. I am surprised how tiny it looks from the outside, but how well I fit-in despite that. I am ready for yet another night when their little kid (my boss) would toss me around the house. And here he comes running, he is ten, but could qualify as a toddler. He opens the fridge, the ice-cream is gone, the milk is spilled all over. But the dog, looks at them like, he wants to take the blame for all the mess.