Like most people, my human has a routine. She sets multiple alarms that disturb both of our sleeps — and eventually she rolls out of bed. The first thing she does is blast her music.
It is important to note that dogs have sensitive ears and we hear a lot better than the human species. This means that when she cranks up her jams they’re especially amplified in my velvety floppy ears.
Who likes Hall and Oates anymore anyway? She’s been on that kick recently.
But her music is terrible — and her singing is worse. I can, with absolute conviction, tell you she does not sound even the slightest bit like Smokey Robinson when she’s going through her Motown phase. She doesn’t sound like Gladys Knight or even like just one of her Pips. Her Diana Ross is awful and her Righteous Brothers is the worst (she actually sounds like she’s yodeling).
If I could speak, I would tell her she was too young to like music with flutes and maybe she should try listening to something cool instead of her dusty vinyls — and that it’s no longer 1975. But I don’t know words so I just plead with my big brown eyes for her to stop the madness.
Sometimes she’ll bust out Madonna — which is weird only because she tries to act Like a Virgin and she sings Open Your Heart To Me like she means it. But, let’s be honest, it’s better than her weird adult contemporary stuff and at least I don’t feel like I’m grocery shopping (not that I actually do that — those are human tricks).
Her playlist is essentially every guilty pleasure everyone pretends they don’t like and I, with my exceptional hearing, am subjected to it. Every day. Also, a hairbrush isn’t a real microphone — so, why?
And yes, I feel sorry for myself.
Off to plug my ears,
Clark Kent
