I hate cicada season. HATES it, Precious.
- Another pair of flip flops – sadly, Crocs are in some sort of trouble and he keeps eating my sandals…and I’m insane enough to attempt to thwart him by buying another pair and hoping I don’t forget to put them out of reach. Oh come now, do we REALLY think I’m capable of keeping them safe from the one-shoe-eater?
- A full bag of strawberry Twizzlers – I expect to clean up something resembling the results of Strawberry Shortcake kegger later.
- Something that could be a melon-ball sized ball of butter, a hard boiled egg yolk, or possibly some sort of alien eyeball, covered with ants – I mean, he’s a damn master at finding weird shit in the yard as well as leaving weird shit in the yard. However, the eye-rolling and frantic snorting when he gets an ant up his nose is utterly priceless.
- Just another hole in the wall – Pink Floyd would be proud, I’m sure. For those counting, this makes three. Is there a psychiatrist out there who treats pica in dogs? I don’t get his fascination with sheetrock.
- Weiner Dog and Olaf guts – not real ones. But his weiner dog stuffed animal is now gutless and I spent a good 20 minutes picking up fluff even as he looked me in the eye and slooooooowly pulled out more stuffing, like a creepy serial killer. Who makes a stuffed dog toy of another dog, anyway? Disturbing.
- Every throw pillow in this house – because he’s a fucker who obviously hates my naps.
- A goose egg. Where the fuck did he find a GOOSE EGG, and WHY WAS IT ROTTEN? – I mean crawling with maggots, green and black inside, death-stench rotten. What the fuck have people been doing in this townhome complex, really?
If I catch the person leaving rotten goose eggs or weird yellow balls of something icky in the yard, I suspect they’ll find an unidentifiable stench in their yard…far away from my stinky-breathed-dog.