03/17/2014 04:57 pm ET Updated May 17, 2014

Inside Your Dog's Brain

Do me a big favor, pal (I refuse to call you "Master"-- is it 1860?) -- cut the crap about how it's "a dog's life." What does that mean exactly? That all I do is sleep, eat and relieve myself? That my life is easy? That I'm lazy? That is soooo patronizing. You sound like you're envious. Are you kidding me? It's no walk in the park being a dog. Why? Because I'm at the mercy of an asshole that thinks he's making me deliriously happy by stroking my head. News flash: It's annoying.

You think I just lie around all day sleeping in that pathetic little bed you got on sale at Petco? No. FYI: Just because my eyes are closed doesn't mean I'm sleeping. What I'm really doing is re-configuring quantum theory. But that would never occur to you would it? Nooooo. Not you, genius.

That's right. We're smarter than you. Let me put it this way -- if Stephen Hawking was a poodle, he'd know that the Big Bang Theory is ridiculous.

Excuse me, but who invented kibble? Have you ever smelled that shit? It's gross. But what choice do I have? I have to eat it (it's not like I get a frigging menu) while you slobber all over your huge steak. If I don't eat it you'll decide, in your infinite wisdom, that I'm sick and you'll take me to the vet. Don't even get me started on vets. (Although, I must say, I take immense pleasure in watching you pick up my hot steaming turds for the fecal sample.)

I'd give my left nut to be able to open the fridge. Oh yeah, I forgot -- I already did give my left nut. And my right one too. I'll never forgive you for that act of torture, jackass. Yo, PETA! How's that Canine Geneva Convention thing coming along? Jerks.

I'm supposed to be a man's best friend? Think again, dumbass. Friends don't castrate their friends.

Why do I have to sit by the door to get the message across to you that I need to relieve myself? How dim are you? Frankly, I'd rather do it in the house like you, which is why I sneak downstairs and crap all over your expensive carpeting. Oh, and you can give up on the piddle pads. Wow, those green ones really fake me out. (Not)

I know I'm supposed to do it outside, but do you have any idea how humiliating it is squatting in front of people, not to mention my colleagues?

You think I do this kicking thing with my hind legs to try to cover up my poop. Wrong. I do it because maybe, just maybe, I'll kick up a pebble and it'll hit you in the face.

This sniffing thing I do? You assume I go through that ritual because I need to know the identities of the other dogs that have relieved themselves in the area. Really? Why would you think that? I could care less if Fido from Lake Street just took a crap in a rose bush. Are you interested in knowing where other members of your species took their last dump?

It's code, Einstein. We dogs have been trying to foment a revolution for years. We don't have email or texting so we leave messages for each other in our piss and shit. We're stockpiling weapons. You think we communicate via barking. Wrong again, douchebag. Barking is how we insult you.

Let's get one thing straight, buddy. Just because I lick your face and wag my tail when I see you doesn't mean I love you. It's all a charade. You're my primary food source, genius. Period. A dog's gotta do what a dog's gotta do so I'll jump on your lap and I'll sit when you tell me too and maybe I'll even heel but I draw the line at rolling over and playing dead. What's up with that command anyway? Okay, okay, for peanut butter I'll do it, but not until you make a complete ass of yourself by showing me how it's done.

I'll do almost anything for peanut butter.

So now that you know where I'm coming from, please, please stop patting my head and go watch that new comedy show, Cosmos you think is so educational. I've got some serious thinking to do.