People always say, “Puppies are cute.”  Puppies are cute in the same way crime documentaries are interesting – you’re fascinated, but you know that something bad is about to happen. 

My puppy, Coco, is a 70 pound four-legged maniac who runs a demolition business in my living room. 

 

Coco has eaten: 

After each of these instances my parents have rushed her to the vet who says, “Your dog is fine.”  She looks at us afterward like, “What? I didn’t do anything. You shouldn’t have left that there.” 

 

You know what really gets me? My puppy begs me to throw the rope. She brings it over, wagging her tail like, “Shreya please, PLEASE, throw it, I am dying of boredom.”  So, I reach for the rope … and suddenly she turns into a rabid, 70-pound monster from National Geographic. 

Teeth clenched. Eyes wild. Growling like she’s auditioning for a horror movie. And now I’m in a full‑body workout – total cross fit, trying to pry a soggy rope out of her mouth like I’m defusing a bomb.  I’m like, “Coco, I cannot throw the rope … if you do not RELEASE the rope.” But no. She wants me to throw it, and she wants to keep it, and she wants me to tug it all at the same time. I am sweating bullets and getting a shoulder injury. Meanwhile she’s acting like a mean little monster, clamped on that rope like it owes her money. And I’m just standing there thinking, “Wow. I’m being bullied by someone who eats crayons.” 

 

And here’s the kicker: she’s still cute.  Tiny tornado in fur. Destroyer of socks. Consumer of textbooks. 

 

Honestly, I think she’s teaching me a higher truth: If a little furball can survive rat poison, scissors, and chicken bones, and still be absurdly healthy and happy maybe … maybe I can survive Monday. And Homework. And tests. And maybe SAT prep?  

I Am Innocent. — The Dog  

Hi. It’s me. The puppy. 

Before you listen to Shreya’s version of events, I’d like to say – I have done nothing wrong. 

I did not choose this house. This house chose me. Therefore, everything inside it is mine. 

If it is on the floor, it is mine. If it is not on the floor, it will be. 

If it fits in my mouth, it is a snack. If it does not fit in my mouth, it is a challenge. 

 

All objects are either: 

1 Food 

2 A toy 

3 Food pretending to be a toy 

There is no fourth category. 

 

Everything I ate was left out ... I assumed just for me. That’s called consent. 

 

Let’s review the accusations. 

Scissors? If they were important, why were they shiny and bite-sized? 

Rat poison? I was doing community service. You’re welcome. 

Clothes? Honestly … those were a choice. Shreya has no fashion sense. I stand by my decision. 

Chicken drumsticks. Bones included. No evidence. No witnesses. Allegedly. 

The blanket? It attacked me first. 

The cholesterol pill? Relax. Look at me. 

Medical textbooks? Light reading, I guess it doesn’t take much to become a doctor nowadays. Also just continuing my own education. 

Crayons? Art is subjective. Also red is my color. 

The protein drink? Listen. I have shoulder definition now. 

 

Every time I eat something, the entire family panics and rushes me to the vet. And the vet always says: “She’s fine.” Because I AM. I sit there on the exam table like, “See? Untouchable.” 

 

Now let’s talk about the rope. I bring Shreya the rope because I am generous. 

I say, “Throw this.” She grabs it. Incorrect. Now it’s a game of strength and dominance. She keeps saying, “I can’t throw it if you don’t let go. That sounds like a ‘you problem’, Shreya.”  I growl a little. For ambiance. She starts sweating. Her arm shakes.  That is called training. Eventually she gives up. As she should.  

 

And yes. I am still cute. This is how power works. 

I am small. I am fluffy. I eat medical literature. 

If I can survive scissors, poison, chicken bones, and childhood, so can she. I am teaching her.  

Anyway. I’m going to go lie on her mom’s clean laundry now. Good talk. Bye!