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You know, I recently got a dog, a retriever to be specific. Now, they call them retrievers because supposedly they bring things back to you. But let me tell you, my retriever missed the memo on what's valuable. I threw a stick, and he brought back an old shoe. I mean, seriously? Is this a swap meet? Did he find a 2-for-1 deal on chew toys and footwear? I'm out here trying to impress people with his fetch skills, and he's showcasing my embarrassing lack of housekeeping. It's like having a furry, four-legged pawnshop mascot.
And the worst part is, he looks at me like he's done me a favor. There I am, expecting him to strut back like a victorious hunter with a majestic antler in his mouth, and he's proudly prancing with a soggy sneaker. Thanks, buddy. I always wanted my shoes pre-chewed.
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I decided my retriever needed some therapy. You know, to address his retrieval identity crisis. So, we sat down with a dog therapist. Yeah, those exist. The therapist asked him, "How does it make you feel when you bring back random objects?" He just tilted his head and gave the therapist this look like, "Lady, I'm a dog. I don't have feelings; I have instincts." I swear, if he could talk, he'd probably say, "I feel fantastic, especially when I find smelly socks."
But the therapist was determined. "Maybe he's trying to tell you something," she said. Yeah, maybe he's saying, "Your taste in toys stinks, and I'm upgrading your lifestyle one old sock at a time.
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So, I decided to interview my retriever for his job. I sat him down and asked the tough questions. "Can you fetch the newspaper?" He just stared at me like I'd asked him to solve quantum physics. I guess he's more of an online news kind of dog. Then I thought, maybe I'm aiming too high. Let's start small. "Can you fetch my slippers?" He brought back one slipper. Just one. Now, I don't know if he's trying to make a statement about my mismatched style or if he genuinely thinks I only need one slipper. Maybe he's a minimalist, who knows?
And don't get me started on the time I asked him to fetch my keys. He brought back the neighbor's keys. Great, now I'm a doggy locksmith mediating key disputes.
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So, the vet told me my retriever needs to lose some weight. I'm like, "Sure, I can put him on a diet. No more treats, just healthy meals." You'd think I sentenced him to a lifetime of doggy prison. He gives me these pitiful, soulful looks like he's been banished from the kingdom of kibble. I tried to explain it to him, you know, the importance of a balanced diet. But he just stares at his empty bowl like I've personally insulted his culinary preferences.
Now, I catch him staring longingly at the treat jar, giving me those big puppy eyes. It's like living with a furry version of Oliver Twist. "Please, sir, may I have some more?" And I'm over here thinking, "Dude, you had a three-course meal an hour ago. What are you, a bottomless pit with fur?
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