Hey guys. My name’s Socks. I’m normally not the letter-writing type. I’m really not. I just want to keep to myself and go about my days with no one bothering me. I don’t need any attention or any special favors, like Flip Murray’s turtle does. But I had to write this letter. It might be the last letter I ever get to write. I hope I have the strength to finish it.

God, am I starving. I haven’t eaten in a month and a half. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I can barely move, and soon, my organs are going to start to fail. The situation is bleak. It is hopeless in here. I feel like Anne Frank, writing letters from her attic.

I’m so so hungry. I don’t need any T-Bonz, or Pup-Peroni, or Milk-Bones, nothing like that. I don’t even need Alpo or something out of a 99-cent, 50-pound bag of dog food. I’ll take anything. I tried to eat my own paw once. Oh, I’m so hungry. It hurts so bad.

How did I get like this? You’d have to ask… that guy who owns me. I don’t know his name. We’ve never actually met. I see him walking around sometimes, but that’s it. I don’t know that he knows my name, either. When I see him, I show him my exposed ribs, lay on the ground and wail in pain, and all he does is go, “QB, represent!” and keep walking. I wish I knew what that meant.

I mean, he acts like he likes me. It’s just that there’s something sort of wrong with him. Most people see a dog as skinny as me and think, “That dog should probably eat something.” Not this guy. He sees me and thinks, “That dog should probably I WISH I WORKED AT BEST BUY twinkies are delicious and I wonder what they’re made of I WILL RIP YOUR FACE OFF we play the Clippers tonight and Maggette is an easy check YEAH, THAT’S RIGHT, TAKE IT OFF, GIRL.” Something I like that. I don’t know.

It’s just like there’s something missing upstairs. He’s not mean to me, he just doesn’t understand certain things. For example, when I stop whining after one of his friends blows weed smoke in my face, it doesn’t mean I’m happy and content. It means that because I weigh 41 pounds, I get really high, really quickly, and my face doesn’t move anymore. Really, guys, I’m not “higher than a giraffe’s ass and feelin’ no pain.” I’m still in a lot of pain, I just happen to be hallucinating, too.

Really, all I know about the guy is that he drives a big Escalade, he likes to do nude push-ups, and everyone else in the neighborhood is terrified of him.

But I’m not… I think he’s probably a nice guy, except for the not-feeding-me thing. And I swear, I’d love him forever if he just fed me… you know, it doesn’t even have to be every day. Just two or three times a week. Please, God. Please let that man feed me. I’d give anything for just one bite of my owner’s favorite meal, Cristal and Slim Jims.

And I’ve heard the stories that he tried to feed me, but the American Bulldog stole all the food. That’s not true. It is true that the bulldog has eaten and I haven’t, but the bulldog doesn’t get fed either. Right now, he’s in the back, eating Rick Adelman. He kills people and eats them, and he never shares. He’s killed a lot of people… two mailmen, a handful of girl scouts (he did give me a few Thin Mints), a Jehovah’s witness, a cop, a few naked girls covered in glitter, and Bison Dele. Bison Dele was huge. The bulldog ate him for like a month.

The animal control people are my only hope right now. If I whale and cry for long enough, sometimes, the neighbors notice, and they’ll call them. I don’t want to go back to dog prison, but at least they’ll get me some food.

Stay strong, everyone. And if you have a steak, treasure it. Treasure that thing like it’s made of gold. God bless.

– Socks