Newsflash, but you can sometimes be an asshole. Generally, you are an amazing dog who has done great with training so far. Sure, you get super excited with new people at jump up on them. Naturally, you get pissed off sometimes at being ‘locked up’ and you tear apart a non-suspecting toilet paper roll and shower mats. You like to annoy your other pet mates, but you do not realize they have about zero shits patience in dealing with a six month old, but I love you and you’re my buddy.
Since moving out to our five acre oasis, you have run to your heart’s content, doubled your appetite, and are supremely happy. You accompany me in mowing, poking around the barn, and sitting on the deck.
HOWEVER. HOW-FUCKING-EVER, we have all been surprised by your affinity for DEAD SHIT. You have somehow maneuvered 217,800 feet so intently that you have treated chicken and snake carcasses as chew toys. We quickly learned our lesson in not apprehending you, as you make a game of it and BOLT with your masticated dead shit, as if we were trying to play chase.
By the way, why IS it, that you only want to play chase when you have a rotting form of deceased animal hanging from your smiling jowls? Why can’t you just play fetch with a tennis ball, like millions of canines before you? Could you possibly look into doing something CUTE with all of this energy, like doggie flips off the deck or picking mulberries for me? To say where are slightly taken a-fucking-BACK by this atrocious habit is an understatement.
Cue to the morning of June 16th. I was enjoying my coffee, chatting with my son, before I let the animals out. (sidenote: the cat now goes outside. yes, the asshole cat that ran away for three days, and came back to us BATHED and fed… yes, the same asshole cat that DEMANDS we let him inside to use the litter box) Once the animals were done feasting, you, DEAR DOG, decided you wanted to go back out – as a surprise to NO ONE. However, you piqued my interest when you BOLTED for something you clearly left on the patio. I am now coining this particular type of sprint as the DEATH BOLT.
I will say this – thank you for not bringing it inside. I suppose it’s only a matter of time, but seriously, expect me to fully lose my shit and possibly sell the house when that happens.
I yanked you back in, knowing full well that in the short 13 days we’ve been here, that your BOLTING is never good news. Quickly after exiting the threshold of the door, I’m met with rotting-dead-flesh smells. Groaning, I go back inside for sterile gloves, a MOPP suit, gas mask and a bowl of acid to dispose of whatever the fuck it is.
Much to my surprise, I FIND THIS.
what. in. the. SHIT. is. THIS.
APPARENTLY, I HAVE A FUCKING KOMODO DRAGON LIVING/SLOWLY DYING/DEAD UNDER MY PORCH. What?! HOW?! WHY?!?! This reptilian like talon will be haunting me in my dreams. Typically, surprises from nature are turned into homeschooling lessons. NOT TODAY. NOT FUCKING
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be calling Chris Pratt to get his advice on dealing with fucking dinosaurs.
— I’m being told this is an alligator foot. Which… WHAT. I’m not by a creek, lake, or any body of water. DID IT HAVE BABIES. WHERE IS IT FROM. WHY MY DECK. After a quick Google search, I’m finding they can live in the area. WELL CALL THE INFANTRY, MOMMA DON’T PLAY THAT SHIT.