January 22, 2009
Dear Gus,
        Back when I was a young lad, Bob Barker was the host of The Price is Right, which is a game show that prominently features joyous flip-outs from middle-aged fat people because they just won a washer/dryer. (Incidentally, the show is now hosted by a middle-aged fat person who regularly brags about being from one of the worst cities in the United States.) Anyway, Mr. Barker seemed like a nice old man, and he was, and we trusted him and he knew this. So he felt no awkwardness in reminding us every week, at the end of each episode, to have our pets "spayed or neutered." I always felt this was gross. Unnecessary and cruel, sure, but mostly gross. I mean, it was this old man telling me to chop my dog's balls off, right? Inappropriate, Bob. Stick to sexually harrassing your Beauties.
        Of course, Gus, this was before I was introduced to you. You were allegedly born last June, making you seven months old. Allegedly, one year is equivalent to seven years of your life. This would allegedly make you around 3 or 4 years old. And Gus, I have to tell you, I have no memories of being four years old and wishing to put my hands up on the bench in the hallway and hump the air.
        But that's the thing - you could probably keep your testicles if you stuck to putting your paws up on the bench and humping the air. That's actually really funny. You're humping nothing. It's like you're filming a rap video. I really should just throw hundos on you instead of scolding you. Cash rules everything around Gus.
        The problem is, Gus, that you don't just hump the air. You hump my leg. You hump other people's legs. AND you hump my forearm. My forearm, Gus! I'm innocently trying to pet you, to scratch your neck, maybe, and you just feel no shame in going for it. It's like my forearm is taking you out to a nice dinner, and you jump on top of it after we order drinks and an appetizer. In front of other restaurant patrons. Most of whom...are actually enjoying themselves. Laughing at the rape of my forearm. I mean, at least buy it something first. Meet its parents. Then, you know, who knows?
        Anyway, that needed to stop. And while I admit I'm a little afraid of what post-balls Gus has to offer, a crippling addiction to chocolates is better, to your owner, than a crippling addiction to my elbow.

Your forever platonic owner,
The Fictional Ninja