I always viewed myself as a “dog person,” not necessarily because I loved dogs, but because cats are butt heads.

Cats don’t greet you with love when you get into the house after a long day. They give you the cold shoulder until the can opener comes out, then allot the minimum amount of affection needed for you to dig through the litter box and feed them again in the morning. And they have no shame, nonchalantly licking their genitalia a few feet away from you as you eat dinner. It’s hard to finish my SpaghettiOs with such a humiliating sense of jealousy stirring inside of me.

I stopped calling myself a dog person after I was forced into caring for a dog. During the break, my parents sold their house and signed a lease to an apartment. For the first time in their lives, neither of them read the fine print, which stated specific dog breeds weren’t allowed. My mom’s sociopathic toy poodle was fine, but the Doberman wasn’t. A week before they moved in, my father drove down from San Jose and dropped off a 75-pound, hyperactive load of responsibility at my doorstep.

This dog is a perfect personality match for my father—a strong-willed, persistent workaholic. In a middle-aged man, these are the great, redeeming qualities of a provider. In a purebred Doberman with ADHD, these are nagging qualities that eventually lead to guilt-free abandonment on a freeway overpass.

Yes, it’s nice to have a territorial guard dog which intimidates even the most psychopathic maniacs. She does a great job at scaring off those pesky cultists such as Jehovah’s Witnesses and Girl Scouts, something your little dog can’t do.

I don’t get the appeal of little dogs. They’re more weasel than dog, so they shouldn’t be classified in the same species of animal as the noble Great Dane or regal Irish wolfhound. They don’t prevent strong-arm robbery, rape or murder. Small breeds, similar to cats, will cower in fear if a true physical threat presents itself. A few days after some criminal forced himself into your apartment and strangled you, the cats would begin picking at your carcass and your Pomeranian would go on an all-day humping extravaganza.

With a large dog, I hope someone tries to break in and stab me. Good luck, brah. If I happened to pass away tomorrow from natural causes, my dog wouldn’t eat for weeks and would lay at my side until someone found and finally buried me. Every zombie apocalypse film features a large, popular dog breed surviving. You know what you don’t see? Cats, small dogs and for some strange reason, an explosion of decomposer populations.

People love little dogs, not because they believe a dog is a man’s best friend, but because they love controlling weaker beings. Small dogs become a crutch for not dealing with their own mental illnesses, for example, “How can I be narcissistic if I’m taking care of Pixie’s needs?” These people love being able to “care for” a “helpless animal.” They’ll throw around the word “rescue” as though pointing a finger at a cage in the pound was the same as pulling a human being from a burning building or a drowning rip current. Transporting their dogs turns into a fetish, with a thousand different doggy bags so Martini can go on all the mind-numbingly awful chores of everyday life. When told, “Miss, you’re not allowed to bring pets into the store,” they throw out a huffy, “Coco is not a pet. He’s a family member.”

I love accessorizing as much as the next guy, but if I wanted something to take care of that fit in my pocket and whose death was inconsequential to my emotions, I’d pick up a Tamagotchi from Craigslist, not a Shih Tzu-Pug mix.

Yes, having a large breed dog can be helpful at times. Unfortunately, my dad’s dog is a hindrance to sanity. She doesn’t listen. She pulls on the leash until strangling her seems like the merciful thing to do. She barks at dry leaves tumbling past the screen door, but sleeps through the addled drug-addict knocking on the door. When we pass other dogs on walks, she steps to the other side of me, effectively using my body as a human meat shield. She whines at nothing. All I’ve said in the past few days is, “What? What!” or “Stop. Stop it!” I haven’t been able to eat a meal in peace. Her favorite pastime is leaning on people and nudging them in the crotch, so much so I’m beginning to wonder about what sort of “training” my old man gave her.

It’s gotten to the point where I can’t help but question my family’s motives. My mother’s been bothering me about dating more, so I can find a special someone to settle down with and yell at after having children. Maybe this dog is the first step of learning responsibility and soon, after I’ve learned to handle this bit, she’ll slip in a mail-order bride as a substitute. I won’t notice for the first few days, but after I do, I’ll swiftly fall in love. She’ll get pregnant and after having triplets, we’ll settle in for a nice life of disappointment and regret. If anything, though, my parents’ plan has backfired, reassuring me of how unprepared I am for handling the well-being of another living thing.

So if you see a Doberman frenetically running around campus, don’t look at me. I never liked dogs. I’m a goldfish person.