The Inner Thoughts Of A Fed Up Instagram Dog

The Inner Thoughts Of A Fed Up Instagram Dog

“Look at the camera,” they tell me in a baby voice. They don’t realize that I’m not misbehaving when I try to escape, I just hate people taking fucking pictures of me. Every time I try to tell them to get the fuck out of my face, it just comes out as a bark noise. It’s like, listen, I’m a dog. I don’t need a fucking Instagram account of my own. I didn’t ask for this, nor would I ever even entertain the thought of wanting one.

I don’t know why my owners think that following 250 other dog accounts is going to get my account hundreds of thousands of followers. It’s just clearly not going to happen. I’m just a flash in the pan when it comes to this shit. Don’t they realize that one out of every ten owners creates a social media account for their dog? I’m just another goddamn statistic with a following that resembles a limp boner.

I mean, it’s been three fucking months of them posting dumb ass photos of me and my following is going nowhere. Yeah, this is a poor reflection on all of us, but it’s especially bad for me. I know my breath stinks. I know I shit in the house once a week. I know that other dog at the park is cuter than me. But now the entire world has to see photos of me wearing sunglasses and wearing a motherfucking Christmas sweater. It’s fucking humiliating.

Just the other day, they took me to the park for what I thought was just going to be a casual fetch-and-poop affair. I was looking to get some running in before getting the fuck out of there. But the next thing I know, they relentlessly threw a tennis ball 50 yards to the middle of park. Over, and over, and over again. And for what? So they could get one photo of me airborne as I ran back to them in an effort to get 35 likes? I’ve only got so many laps in me. By the twentieth one, I could barely feel my fucking paws and I was panting so hard that I thought I was going to throw up the throw up that I had eaten earlier that morning.

And that’s not even the worst part. There’s an area of our living room that I’m 90% sure is solely dedicated to taking photos of me to put on the account. A couple weeks ago, they tied a big-ass bow around my neck while dad sprinkled fake snow on my head. Every time I tried to say “fuck this” and roll out, they’d pick me right back up and throw me in front of the blank wall. Before that for Halloween? I was wearing a fucking shark costume for about three hours before I shit in it forcing them to take it off of me. That’s what my life is now. I literally have to shit myself to feel normal.

Between them propping me on the couch and forcing me to wear hats intended for toddlers, I barely have time to be a dog anymore. I’m just a vehicle for likes and validation. I even fear that I’m the glue that holds them together at this point. Like, what happens to this account when I die? Are they going to put post-mortem photos of me up to keep in tribute? That’d be pretty fucking creepy. Or will they get another dog and use the following that I built for him? Come the fuck on. I’m only going to be here for 7 to 10 years, and I have to spend them dressing in human clothes and balancing random objects on my head? For what, dammit?

I just feel beaten down at this point. Running away isn’t worth it anymore. I’m at the point where I just have to give them what they need for the post and hope they let me take the rest of my Saturday morning for myself. I just pray to God it’s never that one Saturday of the month where they bring me to a bar and force me to pose next to their beer as if I want to drink it. Earth to my fucking owners: dogs can’t get drunk. We can’t even eat fucking chocolate, so stop trying to humanize me.

This is a plea for help, everyone. If you see me sitting there with a sign on front of me that reads some bullshit about how it’s my birthday or something, just kidnap me. End it all. Or, at the very least, make a snide-ass remark to my owners about how fucking weird it is that they’re making me wear a necktie in public. I know the photos make it look like I’m smiling and enjoying myself, but I’m really just panting because I’m emotionally heated over having to go through these charades again and again.

Shit, I think I hear them coming. I hope she drops her iPhone and has to take it to the Apple Store to get it fixed. I’m not allowed in malls, so at the very least, I can at least take the afternoon to myself to lick my balls and put some work in on this chewy toy. See you on the other side.

Image via Shutterstock

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Will deFries (Twitter / Instagram) is a Senior Writer at Grandex and the world's foremost authority on Sunday Scaries (Twitter / Instagram). Email me at

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