I Let Iggy Pop Be My Dog

I live near an animal rescue, so every time I leave the house, I’m emotionally assaulted by heartbreakingly pitiful creatures—specifically, Iggy Pop. “I wanna be your dog,” said his sad, aging rock star eyes (and also his mouth). Well, I’ve finally had enough. I officially adopted Iggy Pop. And here’s what happened.

Monday

When I picked him up from the shelter, he was so excited. You should have seen the little guy, prancing and preening and cutting himself with broken bottles.

Tuesday

At 72 years old, you would think he would be housebroken by now. Alas, he is not. He’s been dropping little stooges all over my apartment, so I have no choice but to invest in a litter box. I knew when I adopted him that I was taking on a big responsibility, but I can’t help but feel a little resentful. Just because Iggy won the Living Legend Award, has countless platinum albums, and was in a Jim Jarmusch film does not make picking up after him feel any less demeaning.

Wednesday

I took Iggy to the dog park and could not let him out of my sight for a second! He kept whining “So messed up, I want you here” every time he picked a fight with another dog. I should have been warned that he was so violent and needy!

Thursday

I haven’t slept in three days. Iggy keeps yapping “In my room, I want you here.” He is not satisfied with the dog house I got for him even though Steve from PetCo told me it was top of the line, so I had to let him sleep at the foot of my bed. The instant he curled up in a ball at my feet, he yawned and said “Now I’m ready to close my eyes.”

Friday

When it was time to take him out for his afternoon walk, he refused to go. Instead, he barked “I’ll lay right down in my favorite place,” which is under the dining room table.

Saturday

Despite our differences and his rambunctious nature, we have our special moments. Whenever he wants me to pet him, he howls “And now I’m ready to feel your hand and lose my heart on the burning sands.” I think it’s sweet that he tells me when he is ready for scritches.

Sunday

Well, it turns out that the “burning sands” Iggy kept yapping about was actually a raging flea infestation. Now I need to buy him a flea collar and burn all of my bed sheets. I should never have let him sleep in my bed. I should have asserted my dominance as the driver and not the passenger.

Lesson learned: I am never adopting from a shelter again.

Images: Pexels/ Ariel Martini/ Anabel Kane