My daughter’s dog glares at me from its spot in the corner of the kitchen. His nose, black and oily as the night ocean, twitches. I stuff a crust of yesterday’s leather toast in my mouth, gagging down its dryness and grab the leash.

The obese beast sets back on its haunches, going, “Oh no we’re not,” but I was once a pickpocket and my fingers get the clasp in place fast as a wink and then I’m dragging the overweight fur bag across the floor, its claws scarring the linoleum floor, muttering, trying to whimper under my grip.

On the porch I say, “See this? It’s called sunshine.”

In less than a minute of walking, the dog is winded; a huffing heap of shag slumped across the Wilson’s lawn. I try coaxing him. I offer incentives. I tell him maybe we’ll get another dog, a female. Nothing works. The brute’s tongue looks like a piece of pink taffy he’s choked on, that or a pastel snake.

I turn around, get the car, nearly do my back in for good lifting the massive animal, and toss him onto the passenger side. His eyes glimmer but he’s still panting all lothario-like.

I tell him this is for his own good. I explain how impressionable Tweens can be. They have influencing factors: environment, family, friends, pets. The dog doesn’t give a rat’s ass about what I have to say, so I don’t feel a bit guilty when I pull over and chuck him over the side of the bridge. There are all different types, I think, all different kinds when it comes to the joys of parenthood.