CLUTCH (dry, deep, like he’s narrating a sad Eastern European indie film about loyalty and cheese):
I am Clutch.
Warrior. Philosopher.
Good boy.
Back legs?
Retired.
Not gone—just on break.
I slide like a mop with opinions.
I hop when inspired.
And I am always watching her.
This woman?
My woman.
She talks to herself a lot.
Half of it’s poetry,
the other half is her yelling, “Where’s my phone?!”
…while holding her phone.
I love her.
But she needs supervision.
SASSY (barking energy in dog form, like someone gave espresso to a raccoon):
Okayokayokay listen—
She’s the BEST.
Like, actual best.
Like peanut butter on toast best.
Like chase-a-squirrel, leap-over-the-couch,
spin-in-a-circle-just-’cause-I-can best.
She’s the BEST.
Like, actual best.
Like peanut butter on toast best.
Like chase-a-squirrel, leap-over-the-couch,
spin-in-a-circle-just-’cause-I-can best.
She sings in the kitchen!
To ME.
(Sometimes Clutch too, but mostly me.)
She tells me I’m cute,
and I KNOW, but it’s still nice to hear.
To ME.
(Sometimes Clutch too, but mostly me.)
She tells me I’m cute,
and I KNOW, but it’s still nice to hear.
She dances when no one’s watching
and cries when she thinks we’re asleep.
But I’m not asleep!
I never sleep when she’s sad.
I pace,
I paw,
I press my whole soul into her lap.
Because she needs to know—
I SEE HER.
I LOVE HER.
I GOT HER.
and cries when she thinks we’re asleep.
But I’m not asleep!
I never sleep when she’s sad.
I pace,
I paw,
I press my whole soul into her lap.
Because she needs to know—
I SEE HER.
I LOVE HER.
I GOT HER.
She didn’t have to keep me, after my mom died, y’know?
But she did.
And now?
She’s mine forever.
Sorry, rules are rules.
But she did.
And now?
She’s mine forever.
Sorry, rules are rules.
CLUTCH (deadpan):
She does this thing where she cries quietly.
She thinks I don’t notice.
But I do.
I notice everything.
I watch her rehearse comebacks
for arguments she never had.
I watch her win imaginary debates
with the ghosts of people she used to love.
Then she spills a bag of pretzels
and suddenly I am essential.
A hero.
A janitor with a mission.
SASSY (spinning in circles):
She says I have anxiety.
SHE has anxiety!!
I just don’t like the mailman!!
Or thunder!!
Or Tuesdays!!
Or when she wears shoes—
because SHOES mean “goodbye,”
and I didn’t approve that.
But when she comes home??
I launch myself across the room
like a muppet fired from a cannon.
Because she’s BACK
and I missed her
and everything is fine again
until the doorbell rings.
Then I scream.
CLUTCH (stoic as always):
I don’t scream.
I don’t jump.
I judge.
It is my divine right.
She talks to a glowing rectangle for hours.
Calls it “therapy.”
Then forgets where she put her pants.
Again.
But I stay near.
I guard the couch.
I listen.
Even when she says,
“No one gets me.”
I get her.
We get her.
We are her emotional support wolves.
…with a treat addiction.
SASSY (bouncing back in, unhinged joy):
SHE CALLS ME BABY.
I AM BABY.
But also??
I am NIGHTMARE.
I lick toes at 3am.
I eat bugs.
I bark at NOTHING and then stare into a corner like I summoned Satan.
But she loves me anyway.
She tucks me in.
Lets me sleep in a pillow fort of YES.
And when I run in my dreams,
she whispers,
“Go get ‘em.”
I don’t know what I’m chasing,
but it’s probably a UPS truck.
CLUTCH (final line like a mic drop in a dog park):
We are her dogs.
We are her joy, her chaos,
her trip hazards and her therapists.
And if you ever hurt her?
Just know:
I may not have legs.
But I have rage.
And a surprisingly accurate slide tackle.
SASSY & CLUTCH (in harmony, sort of):
That’s our girl.
And we would die for her.
Unless it’s bath time.
Then she’s on her own.
