This is a story about my dog, Weylin. And explanation, if you will, for why he does some of the horrendous things that he spends his days forcing us to accept.

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Today I spent forever locked in a tiny room where humans defecate. They say we can’t tell time, but we can, absolutely, so I know I was locked in that awful room for eleventeen hours on the nose. My mom locks me in there after every sun up. In half a forever my dad comes and sets me free for a short spell, but then locks me up again. When the Sun is gone, mom finally releases me. The defecation closet I’m kept in has no window, just a bowl of water, a large torture tub and a bone. Of course there’s always Blue, my pet tiger. But he isn’t as close to me as he once was. I’ve made some mistakes and the scars are still there. Blue says he forgives me, but I know he doesn’t forget the wretched sins I’ve committed. How could he?

Where was I? Oh. Here I am. So today my parents got up—first dad then mom. She misses a lot of the day, sleeping like she does. Dad leaves, then mom wakes up, then my sister Sophie. She sleeps in a big room upstairs with my sister Jaimes sometimes, but usually she is all alone with two beds. I’m not allowed, but it looks comfy in there. She and Jaimes have lots of squishy tasty toys in there.

This morning they got up and set me loose to check on things in the district. I have a lot of domain to patrol and not a lot of time to do it. I make a quick run to check my ladies and the guys down the lake. Everything smells in order and I hear mom squawking at the door so I come back, making certain to bring some mud back with me. She should know better than to rush me when I’m on duty. Someone needs to teach her some respect. When mom sees the fresh mud prints on the floor, she swats at me and I run off to check the status of some panties I found on my bedroom floor.

My bedroom is the best one in the house. Windows, and door to the outside, big floor, a room with a good many pairs of shoes and oftentimes a few tasty pantie-treats. The only drawback to my room is that is connected also to the defecation closet. A constant reminder of my torture, my endless struggle…

Have I mentioned Deogie yet? She’s the bitch of the house. She’s seven or eight now, she doesn’t even know. Her mind is already going. It’s sad. Sometimes we are talking and she just wanders off. Other times we’re on patrol and she goes off and naps. Occassionally she doesn’t hear intruders when they’re near, but worse still, she alerts the parents even when there is nothing going on. The parents are starting to doubt our credibility and I’ll tell you right now that Price Bruce Weylin Bacon Jennings Harvey has never once barked for no reason. I just won’t do it. I WILL bark when my bitch does, though. I don’t want the family to think she is losing her grip on things. I’ve heard the stories of what happens to old dogs. During the day when I’m “put away” as my family so nonchalantly calls it, Deogie gets left in charge of things and has free reign of the premises. Its agonizingly unfair. Brutal even. Cruelty to animals. I hear all these noises and there’s nothing I can do.

Anyway. Where was I? Back to my room. My room is big. Shoes. Panties. And I share it with my parents and Deogie. At night we all go to bed at the same time, but usually Deogie is on the cozy spot on the carpeted room’s floor next to my pile of clothes. I covet that spot. I deserve that spot. But its impossible to protect my parents from there. So instead I sleep on a rug on the floor by their bed—between the door to the rest of the house and the door to outside. My soul purpose in life is to protect them and I’ll be dog-dammed if I risk their security for my own comfort. There are some nights that are so dangerous, I even have to check their bed for threats, then outside to patrol the vicinity and keep intruders at pay. The family has no clue how many times I’ve saved their lives from the evil that surrounds our home. I’ve never even had the pleasure of meeting most of the lurkers, though, because no amount of evil can withstand my ferociousness.

Where am I? Oh, here I am again. So today. Today they got up, did their thing, then left me in that horrible room with Blue. Blue and I, poor guy, sat and talked for a long while. We chat about anything. I shared my bone with him, but the guy’s a little greedy and before we knew it is was all gone. Then we had nothing to do but nap. I had a crazy dream. Horrid. And I awoke with an insatiable hunger. I stared at Blue, he stared back. Hours passed, millenniums. I leaned in and he just stared at me, speechless. He knew what was happening as much as I did—possibly more, he’s so very intuitive.

I licked his cheek.

He stared ahead.

Then everything went black.

When I came to, Blue was lying on his side with his back to me. His shirt was shredded next to him. I rolled him over to see what had happened while I was asleep. I cried in horror and buried my face in shame. His ears were gone, as was his tail. Nubs were all that remained of his arms. I cried and agonizing plea. I quickly ate the stuffing that had poured onto the floor, destroying evidence. Hoping to undo what I did. My stomach was in knots. Blue said nothing. He just stared at me with a disapproving look on his battered face.

Apologies spilled from my mouth, fuzz still caught in my teeth. I was supposed to protect him, my best friend, my companion. The only true love I’d known aside from my love for my parents, and I destroyed him. WHY? WHY? So ashamed, I just held Blue in my arms and cried and what a wretch I had become.

Blue and I fell asleep that way, crying. The next time I awoke it was to my mother opening the door. Usually I jump to hug her hello, but not today. Today i walked straight to the main door to wait for her to let me out to do my patrol. This was HER fault. She locked me in that room that drove me to hurt my best friend. She left me in there for enough hours that I went insane temporarily. She did this. She hurt Blue. Not me. She did it. And she would pay.

I went out and checked on things halfheartedly then came home and lay on the floor for a time while mom cooked in the kitchen. I had to get revenge. I watched her walk upstairs to answer the call of my sister and then I made my move. I sauntered into the kitchen with all its delicious smells, peered onto the counter and saw the vision to match what my nose had told me was there: cowburger and noodles, potatoes, fresh cookies. A buffet of delightful treats. My ears told me that mom was still upstairs with my sister and I had time. Carefully, I knocked the cookies onto the floor, devoured them. I dipped my paw into her potatoes, leaving traces of hair, then licked all over a few. Then I took down half the cowburger. I left the room and went back to the defecation chamber, wincing at the sight of my beloved Blue. I gently scooped him up and brought him to the kitchen, lying him carefully beside the beautiful mess I had made. Then I went back to my spot on the living room floor to wait for mom to come back.

As if on cue, she came barreling down the stairs like the evil clown that she is. She walked into the kitchen and screamed. Mission accomplished.

Dear Shout,

I have always dreamed of a world where whites and colors could get along freely. A version of reality where no one has to live in fear of the coloreds taking over the whites. A world with free from color segregation. …A better world. A simpler world.

And, it seems, dearest Shout, that you may share that dream.

I remember it like it was yesterday: Boxes of “New! Shout Color Catchers” lining the shelves of my local supermarket, promising shoppers that a Utopian world does, in fact, exist. My shopping cart screeched to a halt as I stood frozen in the isle, staring in utter disbelief. Certainly, this couldn’t be real. I pinched myself. I shut my eyes and reopened them, half-expecting the isle to revert to the usual clutter of fabric softeners and detergents that had previously been. Could it be?

A single tear rolled down my cheek as I read the words on the box––the instructions, the pertinent information.

That’s when I put all my eggs in the proverbial basket that was Shout Color Catcher, checked out at the nearest register, and went home.

Nervous about letting my reds, blacks, browns, and other dark colors mix with my pristine whites, I decided to test out this god-send of a product on older clothes first. Ones who had been washed many times. Ones who had either had a long life of enjoyment that I wouldn’t be sad to lose, or ones who had been through enough rinse cycles to know to keep their colors to themselves.

I started the washer and waited anxiously for the buzzer to signify the moment of truth.

An hour later, the moment arrived. I breathed a deep sigh of relief as I opened the washer to find that all the clothing had played well together and any evidence of loose dye was found on the Color Catcher sheet. It was a miracle. Proof of a higher power.

I called every friend in my phone book. I danced a little jig. I felt like shouting from the rooftops! “NO MORE SEGREGATION! WE CAN ALL GET ALONG!!”

I hurriedly started a new load of laundry, dumping the remnants of the laundry basket into the machine, pouring in the soap and––of course––the all-important Color Catcher.

Another hour passed, this one much quicker than the last, and the buzzer rang. Once again I pulled opened the door to the washing machine, a smile already glued to my face! Until…

It couldn’t be. Could it? I pinched myself. I blinked twice. I prayed that it wasn’t true. The smile was gone.

One by one, I removed the clothing from the washer: Two pairs of new jeans, my favorite striped sweater, my husbands work shirts, the entire family’s sock collection, and a once-white stuffed bear named “Baby.” All of them. Pink. Last of all, I pulled a dingy, Pink-Bismuth colored square from the bottom of the washing machine. The Color Catcher.

“Color Catcher, what happened?!” I cried out in shock.

My daughter came to see what had Mommy in a frenzy and was thrilled to find her precious Baby had a new pink coat. She picked him up and wandered off, leaving Momy in shambles on the floor with her discolored laundry.

Now, Perhaps the intent of Shout Color Catcher was to spread joy to pre-school girls across America by dying all of their belongings pink. Perhaps the intent was to teach optimists like myself a life lesson about the importance of segregation. Maybe, just maybe, the actual purpose was to create a Utopian world. Whatever the case, I have been left pink-faced and pink-clothed, lying foolishly on the floor.

Shout, why, WHY!!!, did you have to fill me with such disillusion and false hope? Why would you do this?!

I’m not mad, I’m confused. I’m saddened. I’m disheartened. I’m pink.

Please set my mind at ease and explain to me what went wrong with our dreams, because so far all I know is that no amount of shouting has been able to “Shout It Out” like your tag line suggests.

Forever hopeful, Sami