Friday, December 23, 2011
... is the Ryan Gosling of dogs. Which makes me the Eva Mendes of dogs. Oh yes indeed.
I'll have you know that handsome, sexy, manly Joe adores me. He chivalrously defends me from boors who want to hump me*.
Joe doesn't let anyone play with me while in his presence. He wants me for himself alone. He is an elegant, considerate player. The other day I played hard to get (we are fickle creatures us dogs) and he was literally begging me to play with him, making such a cute, unholy racket, even his charming owner asked him to muster some amour propre and stop howling like a madman. I was unmoved, busily sniffing someone else's posterior. Enchilada was upset with me for being such a tease. Of course, when Joe left, I was bereft. Serves me right. You ignore the Ryan Gosling of dogs at your own peril.
*I have noticed that the worst offenders of humping are the fluffy dogs. You see a ball of caramel fluff coming your way, you better run, because beneath all that curly softness, there is a schmuck waiting to hump you. The fluffier the dog, the more horny they are. And because they look like a walking cloud of cotton candy, they get away with murder.
Monday, December 12, 2011
I scratched my own little cornea. This really, really sucks. You can't see it from this picture, but my left eye looks like Quasimodo. Elizabethan collar, my butt. This is torture. Can't play, can't sniff, can't scratch other important places. Hate the freaking medicine. I don't know what they want from me. Make it stop.