So… my dad told me that all women are evil.
And also gold diggers.
And also that they ruin your life.
I don’t believe him. Not even a little bit.

🐾 Duo Duo: Dear Hooman, my dad was lying!

Dear Hooman,

It’s me, Duoduo. I’m two years old, and I live in a pretty cool place now, with a bunch of other dogs. I’m super soft, but also a big boy. Sometimes I forget how big I am when I try to sit on someone’s lap — I mean, I fit, but barely. Still worth it. I love laps.

Anyway, I wanted to tell you something important today.
I didn’t always live here. Before this, I had a different life. I lived with two hoomans — Mom and Dad. They were together for a while, but then they broke up. No one asked me what I thought, which feels kind of rude, since I was also part of the family. But one day, just like that, Mom was gone.

Dad — or I guess I should say, ex-dad — kept me.
At first I thought it’d be fun. Just the boys. More snacks, right? But something changed in him. He got angry. Not barky-angry like dogs do, but quiet, scary angry. He said weird things. He’d talk about how Mom ruined his life, and how women couldn’t be trusted. I didn’t understand much, but I just listened and wagged, hoping things would go back to normal.

Then one night, he picked up my leash.
I was SO excited.
I thought we were going outside for a late-night walk. Maybe to sniff the bushes. Maybe to chase a moth. He told me to sit, and I did. Because I’m a good boy. I waited.

But instead of opening the door, he picked up something else.
Not a ball. Not a treat.
A knife.

At first, I thought maybe he was going to cut something off my harness, or maybe fix my fur. But then I felt it. A sharp sting, like fire on my skin. He wasn’t fixing me. He was carving something into me.

He carved names.
Words I couldn’t read.
And all the while, he kept saying terrible things about Mom. He told me it was her fault I ended up like this.

But I don’t believe that.
I know he lies all the time.
And I fall for it every time, too. He’d tell me we were going out, get my hopes up, clip on the leash… and then hurt me all over again.

Every time, I just sat very still. Because when I flinched… it got worse.

But then, one day — a lady came.
A real lady. She walked into the apartment and looked at me. I mean… really looked at me. Not like I was broken, or dangerous. Just like I mattered. She took my leash, knelt down, and whispered,
“Let’s get you somewhere better, little guy.”

See? I knew Dad was lying.
Lady hoomans are not evil. That one saved my life.

Now I live here, in a no-kill shelter with a roommate. He snores, but he’s cool. The hoomans here are so nice. New ones come by every day, and I press my whole face against the kennel bars just in case someone wants to give me forehead smushes. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t — but I wag anyway. Because maybe next time, right?

OH! And the coolest thing ever happened!
Someone made a tiny version of me!!! Like, an actual soft, squishy, hand-crocheted Mini-Me! He doesn’t have scars like I do — just floppy ears, round paws, and a very good heart (just like me!).

When someone adopts plushie-me, it actually helps take care of real-me. The food, the medicine, the blankets.

So yeah… I can’t be adopted. Not here in China. I’m a big dog, and some cities don’t let big boys like me live in homes. But my plushie can go anywhere. To your couch. To your shelf. To your arms, even.

If you want a Dodo of your own — one that doesn’t drool on your pillow (no guarantees if it’s the real me) — you can find him in the link in bio.

Anyway, I gotta go.
I think someone’s walking by with treats, and I’d hate to miss my chance.

Love you,
Always wagging,
 Duoduo 🐾