I remember when I first met my owners. I was new back then, a sleek red leather couch. When they saw me, they immediately said “that one”. They bought me and, with much pushing and shoving, got me through the door to their house.

My owners loved me. They used me every morning as they read the news. They used me every evening as they watched TV. I was their favorite furniture piece, the pride of the house. I was happy.

Then, IT came. IT was brown and furry. My owners said IT was cute, although I disagree. They let IT out of ITs cage, and IT walked around the house. IT saw me. It sniffed me. And then IT peed on me.

How could IT dare do that to me, the throne of my owners’ palace? Surely, IT would get kicked out, or at least severely punished. My owners would never let such an atrocity have no consequences. I’m the crown jewel! The other appliances are quartz to my ruby!

My owners stared in shock. IT’s moment of reckoning was at hand, I thought. They opened their mouths, as if to yell. And then, suddenly, they laughed. They found my humiliation amusing!

My owners cleaned me up, but as soon as they left the room, IT peed on me again! The sheer audacity of this walking carpet! This time, it was several hours before they noticed, and by then, I had been stained. Oh, the shame! That someone as beautiful as me could be stained boggles my mind! I would punch IT, except I have no arms. There’s nothing I can do but accept my fate with what little dignity I have left. At least it’s over, I thought.

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I was wrong. I was peed on again, and it took even longer before I was noticed. I had accumulated another stain.

This dreadful cycle continued, leaving me more repulsive every run. By the end of it, my glorious leather cushions were stained orange and smelled. I had stopped getting washed three pees ago. I was, in short, a disgrace.

Oh, woe upon me! I was the loveliest of them all, and now I’m the ugliest. I was the most loved of the furniture pieces, and now I’m a pauper, begging to be used. I’m the laughingstock of the house.

My owners don’t use me anymore. They read the newspaper in their hard wooden chairs and watch TV in their lumpy bed. They deserve better! I deserve better!

Still, I suppose this isn’t IT’s fault. If my owners keep IT, I suppose they must have their reasons. They want a dog more than they want a clean couch. It’s not his fault for being a dog.

Why hello there, Bartholomeow! I want you to know that I forgive you for peeing on me. I hope we can get along better and-what are you doing? No! Don’t come any closer! No! Stop peeing on me!