I, too, have one of these self-propelled, snot-fizzling tumors.
I cried when I read about your pug. A cathartic and bitter sob session.
And this is the only male animal we have at the freekin zoo who was allowed to keep his balls. My wife, crazed, deludes herself into thinking that one day he will be allowed to actually breed.
God! Is there a bitch out there loose enough to allow herself to be plied with sufficient alcohol that she will submit to a tupping from a furry turd who smells like every collected armpit in Eastern Europe -- that, on a good day?
And isn't there a special place in hell for someone who would facilitate the propagation of this genetic blasphemy?
Besides, our pug happens to be openly gay. I'm okay with it. But he is, trust me.
Ugh. I'm in a bad mood. It's still snowing like a sonofabitch. On Valentine's Day (day before yesterday), my wife brought me home a big bouquet of heart-shaped helium balloons (honestly... it really IS just what I've always wanted).
Go figure that the skittish cat (The Calico) is also terrified of balloons. And, no, I never did anything to it involving balloons -- flaming or otherwise.
So, anyway, the cat just freaked out on the balloons yesterday morning -- total panic anxiety episode -- and it ran out of the house. Into a neighbor's yard, where it was attacked by a Corgi.
If God never made the pug, the Corgi would be His greatest canine flub-up.
If God shopped at IKEA, Allen wrenches would be as lethal as atomic bombs.
But I digress.
Cat. Attacked by Corgi. Now it has a broken leg.
Seriously. A broken freekin leg.
Hell.
If it survives, it may have earned a name.
