Harley is a little sick – he has an upset stomach – so I knew that I had a problem when I returned from my job to an apartment that smelled like dog-McFlurry.
I let Harley out of his kennel and he was caked in it. Gross.
He shakes himself off and scampers to the kitchen, leaving a trial of shit prints all over the floor! I shout for him to stop so of course he RUNS TO MY BEDROOM AND JUMPS ON MY BED!
Violence ensued. But now I have a fierce pair of bullmastiff gloves and a scarf for winter!
I’m kidding. I only considered killing him.
I tackled this 100lb dog, tied him up in the bathtub, mopped and disinfected the floors, and threw my sheets in the wash.
Then Mr. Shit-prints got a bath:
see stories like this make me happy i don’t have a pet right now, i need more like this, no more sappy “dog is amazing and cute” stories. k thanks.
I think I summed it up best last night: “Pets mean you need to have Lysol.”
[...] We were walking down the street within three minutes because I still regret the last time I made him wait. [...]