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Chapter One

Yes, world, I am writing my memoir, and I have titled the first chapter simply this:

EVERYONE HATES JACQUES PAPIER

I think it captures the exact drama of my first eight years in the world rather poetically. Soon I’ll move on to chapter two. This is where I’ll confess that the first chapter was, in fact, the truth stretched, much like the accordion body of my wiener dog, François. The stretch would be the word everyone. There are three exceptions to this word. They are:

My mother.

My father.

My twin sister, Fleur.

If you are observant, you’ll notice that I did not include François the wiener dog on this list.

 

 

Chapter Two

A boy and his dog are, quite possibly, the most classic of all classic duos.

Like peanut butter and jelly.

Like a left and right foot.

Like salt and pepper.

And yet.

My relationship with François more closely resembles peanut butter on a knuckle sandwich. A left foot in a bear trap. Salt and a fresh paper cut. You get the picture.

In the interest of truth, it is not entirely François’ fault; the cards of life have been stacked rather steeply against him. For starters, I do not believe the person in charge of making dogs was paying attention when they attached François’ stumpy legs to his banana-shaped body. Perhaps we’d all be ill-tempered if our stomachs cleaned the floor whenever we went for a walk.

The day we brought him home as a puppy, François sniffed my sister and grinned. He sniffed me and began barking—a barking that has never ceased in the eight years I’ve been within range of his villainous nose.