Dogsitting is not my jam.

24 Oct

Monday:

Dammitdog, I am trying to eat.

Whineeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Dammitdog, I am watching the debate. Are you SURE you need to go out NOW?!

Whineeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Dammitdog, lay down and go to sleep and stop using my body like you’re a Victorian husband pacing the oriental rug outside his wife’s chamber while he waits to find out if it’s The Heir or just another girl and I AM THE RUG. It was a PLANE. There is NO RAIN on the radar.

Whineeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Tuesday:

Dammitdog, I am trying to eat and you were JUST OUTSIDE.

Whineeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Dammitdog, it’s FINAL JEOPARDY. Can’t you wait TWO SECONDS?

Whineeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Dammitdog, why do you care if the dimensions on the map don’t precisely match the kingdom – go lie down over in the field with the Blue Fairies – and maybe Regina will do something good and not evil with the 2000 acres I am about to sell her so stop whin… Pillow? Dammitdog? Arghhhhhhhhhhhh. It is TWO IN THE MORNING JUST GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP. IT ISN’T LIKE YOU’VE EATEN ANYTHING SINCE THEY LEFT SO YOU CANNOT POSSIBLY NEED TO GO OUTSIDE AGAIN.

Whineeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Do not let the cuteness fool you, the above furry lump of warm is actually a sleep siphoning succubus.

Obviously Sister and BIL’s anniversary trip is going REALLY well.

I am never having children.

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