[Russell Wilson's pass is intercepted by Malcolm Butler, sealing the dumbest end to the dumbest NFL season in ages]
DOG: AWESOME, FOOTBALL SEASON IS FINALLY OVER. Look, I was patient. I know you're mostly a college football guy, but you're still going to watch the pro stuff once college is over. I get that, I'm an understanding breed. But it's finally over! No more lost weekend days sitting in the dark staring at your phone! We can go to the park! Wait here, I'll grab my leash.
DOG: Are you ready?
C'mon, get your shoes on.
DOG: Why are you watching the postgame? C'mon, dude, even I know you hate these guys. I don't even really speak English, but every time Cris Collinsworth is on screen you make that face you made when I pooped out an IKEA shelf bracket. You can't be enjoying this.
DOG: And now you're on Twitter. Great. Bet there's a lot of fun, original content on there. Hey, get this: *nationwide jingle* I saw a rab-bit out-side. Ha ha, it's funny, right? No, it isn't. None of that is. The rabbit's real, though. Change your pants, we're going out.
DOG: Do you even like football? I'm being honest. I don't think I've ever seen you smile while watching a game. You watch months and months of this crap, and you tweet about it, and you read about it when it's not happening, but does it actually make you happy? I'm black and white about what I like and what I don't, you know. I hate the ironing board. You don't see me sitting in front of the closet for five months straight hoping it's going to suck less. No, I bark and then go hide under the bed.
DOG: Anyways, that's beside the point. IT'S OVER. There's no football until August. I heard you promise the other person that. You told her she could watch that rich British people show tomorrow night, and you told me we'd go for more walks soon.
C'mon, at least let me go bark at the trashcans.
DOG: IS THAT A MOCK DRAFT, YOU STUPID HAIRLESS APE? NO. NO. YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. THERE'S THREE-PLUS MONTHS UNTIL THE DRAFT. YOU'RE GOING TO SIT AROUND AND READ WHAT SOME CLUELESS BLOGGER *GUESSES* IS GOING TO HAPPEN THREE MONTHS FROM NOW? I'LL TELL YOU WHAT HAPPENS: THE BROWNS DRAFT SOMEONE LOUSY THREE SPOTS AHEAD OF A HALL OF FAMER, AND YOU SPEND YEARS BITCHING ABOUT IT. NOW PUT DOWN THE PHONE, STAND UP, AND PUT YOUR FREAKING SHOES ON.
DOG: It's all lies, isn't it? None of it's real. You're not going to take me for a walk any more than you're going to train for that half-marathon, or build those custom shelves for the dining room. You're going to find some repetitive stress injury online and convince yourself you have it, you're going to settle for some cheap metal shelves, and I'm just going to sit here, unentertained as always.
DOG: I could've been a champion, you know? My parents both were. You didn't even play sports. Me, I could've been a sheep herder or a show dog, but I'm just happy to live in your house and hang out with you. I enjoy your company. I'm just not feeling any give on your end. You didn't even let me stay on the couch when I farted, like you hadn't been doing it ALL GAME, you gassy hypocrite.
DOG: WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU GOT A GIG BLOGGING ABOUT FOOTBALL, IT'S THE OFFSEASON, IT'LL ALL JUST BE SELF-INDULGENT NONSENSE I HATE YOU
DOG: You know what, screw you. I'm leaving.
[sound of a Tupperware container being opened]
DOG: WAIT THERE WAS HAM LEFT? I LOVE YOU DON'T EVER CHANGE TO ME YOU ARE PERFECT