Your dog is destroying my will to live.
Not the adorable well-mannered puppy that you adopted several months ago, but have since given away because she turned out to be a beagle instead of the long-legged elegant hound you hoped she’d become*. Nope. I’m talking about the hound that you traded her in for. The one who seems to live in the apartment bedroom directly above mine.
Just so you know, this new elegant, long-legged dog spends every evening since you’ve brought him home several days ago baying a howly cry out into the lonely night and, judging from the sound of it, throwing himself against the walls, windows and doors.
It’s so sad.
Sleep is a necessary ingredient to life and I haven’t gotten any since you “traded up”. Call me delicate, but it’s impossible for me to concentrate on sheep or anything other than what a horror of a human being you are when the unmistakable sounds of a large animal having a panic attack are playing out directly above my head.
As you didn’t answer the door when I wailed blows upon it in horrified and sleep-deprived fury, I can only assume that you’re busy being an assh*le elsewhere. Yay, you. Share it. There’s no need to limit your weird social-cue-obliviousness to one neighborhood. Maybe you’re taking a comprehensive night class on how not to be a creepy assh*le. That would actually be great. It’s exhausting to walk all the way around the back of the building just to avoid you. And it would be nice to not be surprised by you lurking on the stairs, just beyond the scope of my front door’s peephole, waiting with insane amounts of patience for me to come outside. And I hope that my very strong suspicion that you got the dog in the first place in order to chat girls up in the dog-park is just yet another example of me being silly…
But take care of your dog.
Or the authorities will do it for you. Because guess who I’m calling first thing in the morning.
That is all.