This is Snoopy. He is my dog, and I love him.

I got him in 7th grade. My dad told me that if I were to join a sports team for a year, he would get me a dog. I don't think he actually thought I would do it, but I joined my school kayak team. Hey, that's an Olympic sport, it counts. On January 14, 2003, we brought Snoopy home from the humane society, and we've had him ever since.

Now, fast forward to 2010. Dad hates this dog. He claims that if Snoop even touches the carpet, he'll pee on it. It's true that he's had accidents in the kitchen before. Dad claims that the dog has forgotten that he isn't allowed to go to the bathroom in the house. What I don't understand, though, is that when I had him at my apartment, he didn't go to the bathroom on the floor once. He went to the door when he needed to go out, just like he's supposed to. To me, this means that he isn't taken out enough here, and if you have to go, well, you have to go. You can't fault an animal for that.

So, now, he keeps Snoopy locked up all the time. He's either out on the deck, in his bed, but attached to his leash, or in his kennel. ALL THE TIME. I personally think that's cruel, to keep him like that. And then Dad gets mad if Snoopy barks, but he's gonna bark if he's locked up all the time. Dad told me my job this summer is to get rid of him. Me. My job. Get rid of the dog that I love. I offered earlier, in the spring, to find an apartment that would allow pets, and I would take him with me. Dad told me no. Now I'm supposed to get rid of him? I told Dad that I would take him. Now I've signed a lease in a place that won't even allow goldfish.

What an asshole.