Help: Recently, two young, wanderlust lovers named Bailee and Clay adopted me because, as they put it, my “merle coat perfectly matches the van’s reclaimed oak ceiling.”

Help: I am trapped inside a midsize van with an emotionally unstable trust fund girl and her shaggy, unbathed, constantly shirtless boyfriend who she is only dating to piss off her conservative parents.

Help: I did not sign away my likeness to be used for the painfully-titled Instagram account, “Neverending_Journey,” nor do I have any part in the account created just for me: “Ruffing.it.with.Rufus.”

Help: Our van (which we have, I guess, named “Big Red,” because it is big and red and we are so very creative and original) may look like an aesthetically-pleasing Brooklyn coffee shop on the inside, but that doesn’t change the fact that we are barreling down the interstate in a 1985 VW Bus with 250,000 miles on it. If and when it breaks, it will be me, the unwilling and unbuckled dog that goes flying through the windshield.

Help: Bailee has started selling homemade vegan energy bars for dogs on social media. She is an entrepreneur/digital content marketer/SEO specialist/food blogger, after all. She says I love them. I do not. They taste like desperation and they give me cramps. 1 star.

Help: I think my owners are confused about what the phrase “off-the-grid” means. They curate this image of a nomadic lifestyle, yet we just ate at a Michelin-starred restaurant last night and we spend every other weekend doing laundry at their parents’ houses.

Help: I am worried that Bailee and Clay believe their followers are truly in awe of their lifestyle when, really, they just like the pictures of Bailee’s butt.

Help: I have been put on a pedestal I do not deserve. I am just a regular dog that likes to eat, poop, and shake my soaking wet fur right in your face. Despite what Bailee and Clay portray, I am not any more unique than your own dog.

Help: Bailee and Clay reek of body odor and insecurity. This van is filled with fumes of sweat, spoiled kombucha, and privilege.  

Help: I don’t know what is a bigger affront to my artistic integrity: Bailee’s poorly written, syntactically-challenged, meandering blog posts that mean nothing and inspire nobody or Clay’s overexposed, over-filtered photographs, framed in fabrication and manipulation.

Help: Bailee and Clay refer to themselves as my “mommy and daddy.” If that is the case, then I am requesting child services because my parents have sex in front of me every day.

Help: For people who #optoutside and claim to be #naturelovers, Kaleigh and Clay seem to actually #hatebeingoutdoorslongerthanittakestotakeapicture. This is quite unfortunate for a #instadog, like me, who just wants to chase some goddamn squirrels every now and again.

Help: Bailee and Clay have been bickering all day over which hashtags to use for their latest round of posts. At one point, Bailee broke down in tears saying “what is the point of all of this if we’re not getting any engagement!” Clay’s solution was to “do another bikini shoot, babe.”

Help: The van’s engine exploded outside of Yosemite. Bailee and Clay have decided to move back to their unoccupied three-bedroom Upper East Side apartment in Manhattan. It doesn’t allow pets so they’ve given me to Kenzie and Chet, a couple they met on Instagram who are planning their own #vanlife. They thought the auburn in my merle coat would really make Kenzie’s hair “pop” in photos. Help.