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  • Tara R

LETTER TO THE SAD, SHAMEFUL MOTHER WHO SCOOCHED AWAY FROM MY DOG AT THE NEW MOM SUPPORT GROUP



Dear rude lady who’s name I can’t remember but I think you go by Zander’s mom,


I hesitate to call you a lady, as that implies you are a person of decorum, which clearly you are not. A civil person would never boldly angle her body away from a fellow new mother, simply because she arrived at the new mom support group with a child strapped to her chest and a Pomeranian perched in her purse. A decent human being would not obviously flinch at the slightest, little yip from a barely three months old pup. You coolly described yourself as "not a dog person," but, lady, I have news for you:


My dog is just as much my baby as my baby.


You need to realize this now, if we are to get along. If we are to meet every week in this new mom circle of trust, then you can’t have what’s clearly a heart made of cinder. If you don’t delight in the wagging tail of a friendly fido, then I’m pretty sure you’re not cut out for 8 rounds of peek-a-boo on 2 hours sleep. I mean, perhaps, you’re not a “baby person” either? We are not all mother material.


After all, if I am a “dog person” and you are not, then what are you implying? That I am the type of person who will French kiss any random mutt that I see on the street? That I will get on all fours to play with any feisty, four-legged friend with good hair who crosses my path? That I am one of those people who blathers on and on about groomers and weewee pads, and easily slips from formal English into doggie-talk? Ha! Shame on you and your snap to judgement. You anti-dog moms are so superior, but really, are you such a good girl? Are you? Yes, you are! Yes, you are!


Wait, sorry, I mean, you’re not. You’re SO not.


Let’s say you truly are not a dog person (and, by not being a dog person, I mean you either have a missing gene and/or antisocial personality disorder), then I fear for your child. Without a loveable pooch at home, your little angel is destined to end up dabbling in Satanic cults on the dark web, or serving time in juvie, and I'm not sure our babies should hang out.


Heed this warning: I may spend the better part of our moms’ group making endless jokes about the rank stench of your baby’s fresh stool. But, if you so much as sneer at the formidable pile of poop my precious pup will most definitely be planking down at the upcoming New Parents Potluck in the Park, I will have to report you on the community bulletin. We are a judgement free mommy group; icy glares will not be tolerated. If you want your child to grow up to be an ax murderer because his cold-hearted, canine-free mom has no soul, that’s your business.


Look, I don’t mean to say that you, and the prospects for your offspring, are eternally hopeless. You may just be one of those “dog people” who swore they would never be a dog person. And I get that! I will be there for you as you transition from your worthless, vapid existence into your new one filled with purpose and plastic baggies! I am only a text away on those first, long, sleepless nights when multiple species in your home refuse to go down, or throw up in the living room.


You make offhand jokes about fur allergies, but, as a dog mom who feels things, I know there’s more than meets the eye. You seem well-adjusted, but no one, and I mean no one, wants to see the skeletons inside the closet of a person who doesn’t like dogs. (Or their freezer, for that matter.) It’s okay to admit if you’ve privately pondered: where did I go wrong?! If, despite that postpartum buddha belly, inside you feel as crusty and callous as the pieces of poop that you dodge on the sidewalk, like a tabby cat navigating a minefield, as you count your steps to our weekly meeting. If I wasn’t a dog person, I, too, would wonder -- Am I dead inside??


So, Zander’s mom, if you can’t embrace your inner-dog person, then I’m not sure we can stay in the same parenting group. I’m here for you if you make the leap. If not, my offer to help is as null and void as your sad, little life will forever be. Your baby might be smiling now, but trust me, it’s gas. I promise, he’s not getting into college. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!

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