My dog, Stiff

Author’s note: To get the full effect of this post, every time you see the word “dog,” please read it as I would say it: “dawg.” Remember, I grew up in Awl-benny, New York.

I can’t believe I never told you about my dog, Stiff. I got Stiff from Beautiful Aunt Joyce two years ago for my fiftieth birthday and it was the best present ever.

Screeching halt, you must be thinking. I know—how many times have I told you I don’t like animals? (Don’t hate me. I just don’t connect with the animal world; I’m still a lovely person.)

Anyway, Stiff is awesome and he’s the perfect pet for me because he’s not real. I mean, it’s not like he’s imaginary or anything, he’s just… fake. Like, stuffed. Why do you think he’s called “Stiff?”


Cute, huh?

And because Stiff was a gift from BAJ, he’s super special. Like if I came home from work and my apartment was on fire, I would totally run in to save him. Or, more likely, I’d yell for the firemen to save him. They’d probably be pissed to have risked their lives for a dog that’s not actually living and breathing, but I wouldn’t tell them until after the fact.

I love Stiff! He’s no maintenance whatsoever and I never have to feed him or take him out for a walk or to the vet for shots. However, one night I was out kind of late and this is what I came home to.


I was like, “Stiff! How could you?” but I stayed cool and didn’t rub his nose in it or anything. I mean, everybody shits on the floor sometimes, right?