Wednesday, February 1, 2012


Ya'll, hand to gawd - my dog is trying to kill me.

Where once there was a precious pup, there is now only a foul beast with villainy in her heart.

Don't believe me? I offer proof:

If this isn't true, why is her digestive tract brewing up a mixture so rank as to make the devil himself swoon?

If this isn't true, why is her dog butt parked directly next to my side of the bed with her buns up near my head?

If this isn't true, why are the barrages so close together that my eyes, nose and throat barely have time to clear the last assault before the next cloud rises?

If this isn't true, then why is the air in my bedroom so thick with dog-stink that I was driven from a warm bed to a cold, blue computer screen at 1:30 in the morning?!

Ya'll might think she's just 85 pounds of lovable goofball,

but you're all on notice - if I die 'in my sleep', it's not me, it's her.

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