The bedroom looked like a crime scene a couple of weeks back.
There was so much spatter I nearly called in Dexter.
Ah, life with dogs.
It reminded me of perimenopause, that time when God's mystical sense of humor gets the better of her and you're wearing a white skirt at a summer party and there's nowhere to hide.
Sophie became a woman this month and boy did the neighbors know it.
The bastard hounds at Shameless across the street were howling well into the night.
We thought the fire marshal had come calling again.
Now before all you do gooders get on your fancy horses, let's be clear.
We have no intention of breeding her and we will get her spade in a couple of months, but the money put aside for the spay went to save the life of Gordon Blackstone, our twelve-year-old pug who has fat where his thyroid gland used to be. He's sitting here, right under my writing table as we speak. Instead of thanking me, he's whining at me.
Thanks a lot pal.
You could have cost us a litter.
I'm taking extreme measures to keep Sophie safe as she transitions. I read up all the literature and it tells you to look both ways before letting her out in the backyard. I have a bucket handy and a spray bottle. But we haven't seen any gentlemen callers.
So far so good.
Though I did have dreams about this last night, where horny dogs were jumping through the window and I was forced to slit their throats. Note to self.
Stop watching Dexter.
Finnigan is spending the next few weeks at the dog park alone, grateful to be out of the house and away from the little bitch now sleeping to my right.
The mating season must be awfully confusing for two boys who lost their balls long ago.
I heard a joke about that once.
What do you call the cat that jumps up on the fence and accidentally castrates itself?