You know how you have a dog, right? And your dog is great. He’s not perfect. He’s got chronically itchy skin and farts a lot and steals things off the counters and humps dogs at the park and doesn’t fetch. Sometimes you have to yell at him to get him to listen.

But he’s got so many lovely qualities that, over time, none of those things matter. You have those amazing moments where you don’t even have to use words to communicate: a gesture, a sound, a look.

He gets me and I get him and we’re a good team and I love him. Others may turn their noses up at some of his less appealing habits, but everyone who knows him, loves him, too.

But occasionally you meet another dog, either a neighbor or at the dog park, who never has to be yelled at. Never steals off the counters. Comes when called. Leaps dramatically into the water to fetch tennis balls and drops it right back at his owner’s feet.

Everybody loves this dog. He’s handsome and strong and energetic and does everything asked of him. He’s entertaining and everyone pays attention to him and fawns over him.

Brett Lawrie is Perfect Dog. I admire his capabilities and his vigor. But he’s not mine and I resent that he’s showing up and being so perfect.

Especially when MY awesome dog, who isn’t perfect, but is really great, IS STUCK IN VEGAS.

Gah. Stupid Lawrie. Thanks for beating the Red Sox.