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My dog is drunk. It embarrasses me to say that, because dogs aren’t supposed to be sloshed. Yet as I type this, drunk little Gonzo is sloppily falling off the couch. His front paws are valiantly trying to grip the cushions as he slides to the floor. He hit the ground with a soft thud and remained in that position for a good two minutes, blinking and staring dreamily at the ceiling. 

Just like me back in college. A real chip off the old block.

I’d lie about my dog being drunk, but there’s no denying it. He’s straight up trashed. His little pupils are dilated. His breath smells like he visited every bar in Superior, WI. When he walks around the house - or rather stumbles through it like Godzilla through Tokyo - he falls down so often that eventually he gets tired of attempting to walk and remains sprawled on the floor, like a weary prize fighter who desperately needs one more round to cover the bets, but just can’t pull it off. 

“Stop the fight!” his eyes say as he stares longingly at the comfy couch he left with reckless abandon, but now so desperately wants back. But I won’t assist him, because this is great stuff and I’m too busy writing it down to lend a hand. Also, to hell with him for stealing my whiskey. I wasn’t done with it yet. Selfish bastard.

Amazingly, I didn’t plan this. You’d think I would have. Getting a dog drunk so I can watch him stumble into walls and bark angrily at the stove definitely sounds like something I’d do. Yet I do have some form of conscience, at least when it comes to animals. Rest assured that I’ll always get people drunk if there’s a chance they’ll bark at my stove. 

This was an honest accident. I had a few friends over to watch the playoff games this weekend, and halfway through the brutal destruction of Indianapolis’ defense, we decided to call it a night. I walked downstairs to see them off, and returned to the apartment two minutes later. Gonzo usually destroys everything in sight the moment I leave, but this time I returned to find him sitting politely on the couch. Being nice, sitting politely, not destroying things. It was all very suspicious. Dogs aren’t like this. Especially not my dog. 

Naive as I am, I offered him a dog treat as a reward for not destroying anything. He bolted toward the kitchen to get it, and ended up drunkenly crashing into the side of the trash bin. His look at that moment was very similar to the one drunk drivers give police as they roll down their car window. It was the classic, “I’M NOT DRUNK YOU CAN’T PROVE IT I’M TWO BLOCKS FROM MY HOUSE LEAVE ME ALONE I’M A NICE PERSON WILL THEY TOUCH ME IN PRISON OMG I’M TOO NICE TO BE SOMEBODY’S BITCH!”

More suspicious than ever, I looked again at the living room. My half-finished drink - a whiskey on the rocks that had long since melted into a “whiskey and warm tap water” - was now completely empty. As if on cue, the dog began hiccupping. The sneaky bastard had stolen my drink.

Panic washed over me. What does one do when their dog is drunk? If I were an experienced dog owner, I’d know that the correct answer is to pull out your phone and document the hilarity to share on the internet, but I’m new at this so I was spooked. Instead, I did what anyone would do. I searched the internet for the phrase “My dog is drunk.”

You’d be surprised how many people’s dogs are drunk. The overwhelming number of posts on the subject provided a much needed moment of relief. I wasn’t the only moron in the world. I was just the most recent one. If you’ve already come to terms with being a complete idiot, like I have, then such a thought is quite comforting. 

One internet man opined that someone with a drunk dog should feed it habanero peppers. Nice try, Internet Man. I’d be mad at your trolling, but it’s entirely possible I posted that myself ten years ago and completely forgot about it. Another person said people who let their dogs get drunk should throw themselves in front of a bus. While I agree that seeing me killed might sober Gonzo up a bit faster, I was worried it might mess up my hair. Another person recommended feeding him a piece of white bread to soak up the booze and sitting with him in my lap until he sobered up. It wasn’t very funny, but it worked.

I’d like to take this time to point out that my dog is not dead. He’s fine. There’s no need to call the police. There’s no need to get PETA involved. I even helped him cope by getting really drunk myself so we could share a hangover the next morning. That’s love, my friends. That’s a kindhearted dog owner. It’s exactly the sort of guy I am: Helpful, caring and responsible. 

Now if you’ll excuse me, my dog and I have to go throw up.