Some call it animal cruelty, I call it good discipline and good exercise: Tomato, Tamato. My poodle takes a daily jog on a treadmill, big deal. My home, my rules. If Pancake didn’t want to live with me, he would have never run away from his previous owner and taken a crap on my front lawn in the first place. You win some, you lose some. Obviously Pancake was in a winning mood that day. He’s better off with me now than he ever was in the snooty upper class dwelling from whence he came. Nowadays, my Pancake spends his days in his personal doghouse, probably licking his dog-genitalia, kickin’ back and listening to some ODB over the built-in loudspeakers. He’s just your everyday teenaged dog.

Like any new dog-owner I found my poodle’s “coming of age” a little off putting. Whereas Pancake once begged to window-shop at the local Petsmart with me, suddenly he was too cool to be seen in any store other than Hot Topic or Cinnabon. Suddenly, my Pancake was all spiked collars, chains and leather leashes. If I hadn’t put my foot down, Lord only knows that good-for-nothing Pancake would be covered in all shades of piercings and vulgar tattoos. I did what any good parent would do. I had my Pancake put to sleep.