The gimp and I got a dog. He’s an adult medium-sized mix from a shelter. One of those shelters that boils the leftover pets and turns them into Salisbury steak-shaped-products for the school system. I object to that practice on principle. Children don’t deserve that kind of luxury. But it was love at first sight for Mr. Slave. They were both at the end of their leashes, drooling around their rubber balls. It was adorable.
Of course, the first rule of dog ownership is training. I love that. And not just because it gives me another reason to wear my latex Nazi costume with my hair in a strict bun, a scourge in my hand, and immaculately painted scarlet lips. It also keeps me from finding a steaming pile of shit logs in my slippers. So far, he knows to sit, lie down, roll over and lick my peanut-butter-smeared roast beef until it makes its own horseradish spread.
When he’s a good boy, he gets a treat… And when you’re a dog, “good” means “breathing and mostly not chewing up the entire fucking house.” So the little bastard has more toys than I do. I guess that makes up for the fact that he eats nothing but ass cereal every day. And the fact that we make him pool mud in the back yard, in the snow. And how we put him on a chain or in a cage when we’re tired of him being a cocksucker.
There’s only one thing… He has to sit there and listen while Daddy rams his slimy fist into Mommy’s blossoming, feminine cornhole. To the elbow. And when we’re wandering around afterward, naked and covered in tapioca, he has to watch. Sometimes I wonder if he considers it normal for a person to ice down his or her genitals and set compound fractures after sex. What if he were a child, and his nuts were intact?
But he’s not a child, is he? No. He’s infinitely better. Even though he’s a teen in dog years, he doesn’t eat the last cookie or hog the remote. He’ll never steal the pills that Mommy takes for her “prescription medication addiction” and sell them to his friends. And he won’t be filling our house with fucking H.I.M. CDs and getting tribal tattoos on his biceps. And if I ever find out that he has, we’re covering them with something a little less metro. This oughta do.
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