Eva Jaber ‘28 (she/her) is a prospective English or international relations major. She is a member of the Cleftomaniacs, an a cappella group, an ESL tutor and hopes to encourage peace-minded advocacy on campus. Contact her at ehjaber@wm.edu.
The views expressed in the article are the author’s own
If you’re a loyal reader, you may recall that I have a dog named Pretzel who wholeheartedly (and inexplicably) hates my guts. Unless I’m actively feeding her mozzarella, she could not care less about my happiness and well-being. In fact, she’s the literal opposite of an emotional support dog. She derives joy from breaking my spirit. She barks at me when my mom tells me she loves me. She brings stuffies and bones nearly within my reach just to get my attention so, when I reach for them, she can bring them to someone else and side-eye me maliciously while the recipient of her gift gives her belly rubs of gratitude. She doesn’t come to the door when I get home. She … it doesn’t matter. You get the point. Now you have context for the question of the week, which is as follows:
“How do I get my dog to like me?”
I realize that I’ve never exposed who asked the question of the week. I primarily preserve anonymity to keep my column a safe space for all readers and question-askers. But my brother asked this question, and this column is a safe space for everyone except Kareem Jaber (or “Walmart Kareem Abdul-Jabbar,” if we’re using his Christian name). The question I was originally going to answer was “Hi Eva, six or seven?” in a special brainrot edition of Eva’s Apple, but Kareem insisted that even satirically entertaining such a lexicon would tank my flourishing columnist career. If my fan base ever wants “Eva’s Apple 11: What the Sigma?” to see the light, I need you to send in persuasive arguments that I should leak it in my next issue. Anywho, whether Kareem was really trying to insure me against aura debt or just wanted his five seconds of fame via my column, we’ll probably never know. And with that, I give you “Eva’s Apple 11: Man’s Worst Enemy.”
Nobody knows better than Kareem how genuine and extreme Pretzel’s hatred for me is. You can understand, then, how messed up it is that he asked me this question. Like Pretzel, Kareem is praying on my downfall. He deliberately asked a question he thought I wouldn’t be able to answer. Lucky for you, dear reader, I have a vivid imagination. Close your eyes with me (don’t actually — just pretend — otherwise, you won’t be able to read on), and picture a world in which I have a dog named Breadstick (which is what I wanted to name my doggo). Even though our relationship started off rocky, Breadstick now loves me more than anyone and anything. How did I get my imaginary dog to like me? Well, Breadstick is just a figment of my generative mind, and she cannot truly love me if I don’t love myself. So, to get Breadstick to like me, I had to fall absolutely and madly in love with my own personality. Here’s how to do it:
Step one: Devise a plan. Everybody knows that the inside of books are direct reflections of their covers. You want your sense of self to be bioluminescent. What’s the logical course of action? You have to literally glow.
Step two: Do your research. With a quick Google search, you’ll learn that the chemical reaction that gives glow sticks their desired look is called chemiluminescence. These fancy words bore you, so it’s time for a creative rhetorical maneuver. “Chemiluminescence” rhymes with that band Evanescence, which sings that song “Bring Me to Life.” Who was also brought to life, allegedly? Frankenstein’s monster. What else did Frankenstein’s monster do? Get on a boat.
Step three: Boat. I don’t care where you find it. Steal if you must.
Step four: Commit a crime. All good boat stories end in a crime and a cover-up. I’ll let you pick, but don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.
Step five: Success. Breadstick is a total freak. She respects you for being brave enough to break the law for the love of the game. You’re loved. You’re respected. You’re wanted (in both the social and legal sense of the term). If that can be enough for you, that’s more than enough for lil ol’ Breadstick.
So, there you go. A clear and direct answer to a malicious question. Still, I would be remiss if I signed off without giving some real, applicable advice to my dear brother. Before worrying about getting your dog to like you, why don’t you start with getting your sisters to tolerate you. How ’bout that?
Okie, divas. Keep asking me stuff (unless you’re Kareem — get a life, man), and I’ll see you in two weeks.
