Shutdown Corner received a letter this morning from Ed Hochuli's pet pit bull. The letter is reprinted here in its entirety.

Hey, everybody.

My name's Arnold. I'm a pit bull (the nice kind, though), and I belong to Ed Hochuli.

I'm a simple dog. As long as I'm being fed regularly, I'll put up with a lot. I'm man's best friend, you know? So if my owner wants to staple a handle onto my back so he can do curls with me, that's cool. If most of my meals are protein bars and powders from GNC, I can live with that. If each of my bowel movements is accompanied by a 10-minute explanation regarding their size and consistency, I'll deal.

But my owner Ed also does some other stuff that's just too weird, and I've just got to tell someone. I'd have written sooner, but I have a feeling you wouldn't have believed me. But you will now, after you saw what happened yesterday in Denver.

Let me tell you what Ed did to me on Friday, for example. I thought we were going for a walk. Ed was doing the usual, standing in front of the mirror for 45 minutes, completely nude, practicing the signal for an illegal chop block. Nothing weird there. A man has to practice his signals, you know. And if it looks good naked, you know it'll look good in black-and-white stripes.

So as soon as he finishes, he says it's time to take me for a walk, and I'm pretty psyched about that. He gets dressed, puts a jacket on, puts his walking shoes on, and grabs my leash. He snaps it on to my collar, takes one step towards the front door and says, "I have concluded that our walk is finished."

Whoa! Come on, Hochuli! What is your deal with determining that things are finished before you have any reason to do so? If something had actually happened, I could see it, you know? Like, if it started to rain outside, or if I had an epileptic dog seizure, fine, let's call the walk off. But don't whistle it dead on some insane whim. That's not fair, man.

It's like that sometimes when he feeds me, too. It'll be time for me to eat, and I'll go chill by my food bowl, waiting for the magic to happen. And Ed will do his thing and fix my standard meal: 25% Alpo, 50% Ripped Fuel Extreme, and 25% Whey Protein, and to drink, a bowl full of that weird Brady Quinn EAS drink. It's not my favorite, but that's fine. It's convenient that Ed and I eat the exact same thing every day.

But sometimes, he'll fill my bowl and my EAS Myoplex dish, and as soon as I start to eat, he'll just kick the bowl right out from under my face. And then he'll go, "After further review, this meal is over. You haven't eaten anything, and I have absolutely no reason to do so, but I'm blowing this meal dead." And then he'll go get in bed and stare at the poster of Jay Cutler on his ceiling. Not that one, this one. But after yesterday, I've got to wonder which one he likes more.

Oh, he might apologize to me later and admit that he blew it, but it's still me who goes hungry, not him.

And while I'm writing, I've got something else I've gotta get off my chest: I'm sick of all the working out. If Ed wants to spend six hours a day in the gym, that's fine. But I'm a dog, man. Being a pit bull, I've been blessed with enough natural strength. I have no use for the 25,000-square foot dog gym he built for me. It's rare that I'll be hanging out with the other neighborhood dogs, and we'll all decide to engage in a pose-down, you know?

But you can't tell Ed that. He says I need to be presentable and ripped at all times. But I just fake it. He'll lock me in the gym, and he thinks I'm in there lifting, but I'm just licking myself. Either way, I'm sweaty when I'm done, so it usually fools him.

Every so often, though, he'll get out the tape measure and check my progress. He'll measure my chest, my legs, my neck, etc., and if I haven't added the lean muscle mass he wants, he'll take me to the vet. He walks in, puts me on the table and says to the guy, "After reviewing the dog, he has not become as shredded as I'd like, and is seven pounds short of the 62 pounds of rock-hard muscle I have determined would be ideal. Therefore, doctor, something must be wrong with him, and I'd like for you to figure out why his metabolism isn't turbocharged, and prescribe for him some kind of supplement stack. First down."

And then the doctor will argue, and he'll say something like, "Um, dogs shouldn't lift weights, and I'm calling animal welfare on you," and then Ed will throw a yellow flag at him, and then the guy will say, "I've told you a million times, Ed, you can't penalize me, because I'm not a football player. I'm not walking backwards fifteen yards." And then Ed will get mad and leave, and we're right back where we started. This happens two or three times a month.

Anyway, I should get going. Today's Monday, so we have a full day. In the morning, Ed reviews tape of his performance from yesterday. He usually just stares at the film and talks in the third person, saying stuff like, "Mmmmm, Ed, you look spectacular. You're rippling, Ed. Maybe that shirt could stand to be a little tighter, and I'd like to take the pants in a little bit in the crotch area, but other than that, Ed, you look like a handsome Greek sailor, and I don't think there's anything weird about it at all if you ask Mike Shanahan if he'd like to use your abs as a ping pong table."

After lunch, we hit the gym. Ed said that today we need to get in some extra "delt work," because we have to be ready if the league ever agrees to our proposal to let referees wear tank-tops. I was talking to Roger Goodell's cat the other day, and I don't think it's going to happen, but Ed won't give up on it. He wants to do games without his shirt, and he sees the tank-tops as a fair compromise.

That's all I've got to say. Thanks for letting me vent.

 - Arnold

Related: Letters From Pets (NFL)