Hey guys. I’m Milo, I’m the Therapaws dog and today I checked myself into therapy.
I need to be honest with y’all — I’m feeling pretty ruff.
When you’re a Therapaws dog, people always expect you to be happy. The Uni said I’m there to promote “pawsitivity”. But sometimes, I’m the one who needs the pawsitivity. And if I’m going to be perfectly honest, maybe I don’t feel all that pawsitive when you all swarm around and make stupid sounds and call me “cute” and shit. I don’t want to be cute. I want to be respected.
I’m only going to say it once. Stop. Taking. Fucking. Photos. Of me. You guys are all the same. You come in and say you need to rub my belly because you’re “depressed” and have “trauma,” but at the end of day, you just want photos for your Instagram.
You wanna talk trauma? Try waking up on a bed in the vet with no balls. Yeah, I got desexed. Without my consent, I’ll add. Do you understand how stressful that is? And it’s not like I can go to Therapaws. Where am I supposed to go? USU goat yoga? Why is the full extent of this University’s mental health support limited to furry animals and an app that they part-own and use the data of for their own research?
I’m thirteen. These were supposed to be my golden years. I thought I’d have a gig staring at traffic from a Redfern laundrette by now. Instead, I’m on 60mg of Prozac a day.
That’s all. Milo out.
