Hi guys. I come to you this week with a tale of woes. A story of a crucial misstep which thrust my life into a tale spin. I hope my blog leaves you with advice that could save you from a similar predicament. In short, you should never name your dog after breakfast food.

Meet Pancake. I purchased him last April. His body cost two thousand dollars.

Things started fine. I contacted a man on the internet when I came across a post that said Bulldog’s for sale. The man said he was selling real live bulldogs. I told him I could meet him that same day to pickup my animal. He said, “no, I am busy, meet my friend. He will be standing outside a PetCo in Worcester. He will have your puppy.” I agreed. And off I went to Massachusetts’s dry left elbow, Worcester.

The ride wasn’t bad. Pretty straight forward stuff. I took some rights and some lefts and then went on a highway. After about 52 minutes I eyed the PetCo in the distance. “Soon, I will have a dog.”, I said out loud in my empty car.

After parking, I walked to the front of the store. I saw a man holding what looked to be an English Bulldog puppy. “Could this be the guy?”, I wondered silently to myself. I approached him. I was right. It was the guy.

He handed me the puppy and I handed him two thousand dollars in cash. I had done it. Finally, after years of waiting, I owned a life. It was an exhilarating feeling.

The ride home was a little strange. Admittedly, I had never owned a dog. As a matter of fact, I’d never even had a dog sleep over before. I lacked skills. Most urgent of which was I didn’t know the proper way to transport my expensive new friend possession. Were there laws about dogs in cars? Did he need a dog seat? Many questions. Very few answers. So I placed him on a pile of balled up old coats and off we went. 

After about an hour in traffic we arrived at home. I paused for a moment to take it all in. The circumstances were incredible. That morning when I was eating Frosted Flakes I had no idea I would have a dog by sun down and now look at me! I was a regular Doctor Doolittle.

After my moment of reflection I decided to show my boy his new home and freshen up (buying dog’s makes me surprisingly sweaty). I took the pup to my room and placed him down on my carpet so I could change my shirt. He took a huge shit. I’m telling the truth when I say that with all the commotion I fully forgot animals go to the bathroom. I was quickly reminded. I picked him up hoping it was over. When I looked at him in his cold, blank eyes it suddenly dawned on me…… my boy didn’t have a name.

This is the point in the story where I wish I named him Rocket, or Gus, or Kevin.

But no. Pancake, I thought to myself. “The boys name will be Pancake”, I screamed at the top of my lungs. 

“Hello, Pancake”, I said to him. And in that instant I saw a flicker in his eye. Not the flicker of a sweet companion. No, it was something sinister. The flicker of a dog who knew his shit didn’t stink (even though it very much did).

Fast forward about 9 months. Pancake weighs 60 fucking pounds now and is nowhere near fully grown. He struts around my house ignoring all commands. “Sit!”, I scream from behind a chair. He does not sit. I cower trying to avoid eye contact. (He told me to never look in his eyes).“Dinner!”, he barks with authority. My hands tremble, but I manage to remove the double cheeseburger from the McDonald’s bag. I put it in his bowl. He stares at me. His icy glare cuts me to my core. I leave. He doesn’t let me watch him eat.

It’s an hour later now. I sit under a bare bulb in the kitchen trying to do my taxes.“Paraguay for 400!”, I hear a jeopardy contestant scream from the next room. Every night at 6 Pancake passes out while he watches Jeopardy on full volume. I scratch my head stumped by my taxes. What is a w-9? What is a dependent? How much income should I be declaring?

“…And that’s a daily double!” Jeopardy blares in the distance. GOD DAMNIT! Enough is enough. I can’t focus. I’m turning down the television.

I rise from my seat on shaky legs. I creep into the TV room deafened by Pancake’s snores and Alex Trebek’s dumb fuckin’ voice.

I grab the remote. My thumb slides to the Volume Down arrow. 100, 99, 98… Pancake shifts as I lower the sound on the television. He continues sleeping. …97, 96, 95, 94… Pancakes eyes snap open. I’ve awoken him. He pops up. “I gotta do my taxes!“, I scream as he leaps toward my face. DARKNESS.

I wake up in my bed. The clock reads 8am. I’m not sure how I got up here. My body aches and I have no recollection of anything after Jeopardy.

I made my way downstairs. Pancake’s friends are there. They smoke cigarettes and drink coffee around the breakfast table. A Doberman walks over and nips at the back of my leg. Pancake pays his lackey’s to bite me now. He considers the task beneath him. I place an ice-pack from the freezer on my throbbing head. I get some Frosted Flakes and sit down at the breakfast table in between a ripped Dalmatian and a tattooed Labrador. Everyone stops eating and smoking.

They stare at me and then look to Pancake. He motions to his food bowl that sits on the cold tile floor. I stammer but realize there’s no point in arguing. I get my cereal and walk toward his bowl. Slowly, I kneel on the hard ground. I pour my Frosted flakes into the dish marked “Pancake”. I hear footsteps behind me. I lookup to see Pancake’s paw. He pours some milk onto my Frosted Flakes.

I take a bite. I’m the dog now.

P.S. I know that this blog doesn’t explain why naming your dog specifically after breakfast causes him to be an abusive maniac. I guess I’m still trying to figure it out myself.

–SteakJones