Helping You Get the Most Out of Your Misery






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Friday, March 16, 2007


My Dog the Attempted Murderer

I don't know if he's unhappy with his kibble or I've yelled at him one too many times for eating turds out of the catbox, but something pushed my dog over the edge yesterday and he attempted to kill me.

It wasn't any kind of snarling, teeth-bared lunge at my throat. Oh, no. My dog is much, much slier than that.

When I got home, as I was preparing to take the dogs out for their afternoon excretory extravaganza, Mortimer began jumping around the kitchen on his hind legs, pretending to be oh-so-very happy at the prospect of taking a crap on the sidewalk. I was attempting to hurry out the door, so I didn't really pay much attention to where he'd been jumping.

Upon returning to the apartment from our trip around the block, I noticed a gas smell coming from somewhere. I assumed the smell was coming from outside, perhaps from a passing fuel truck, perhaps from a chemical attack that would soon leave the entirety of Manhattan crumbled into twitching, mouth-befoamed heaps on their floors.

But, no, the truth was even more frightening. While feigning enthusiasm for my return home, Mortimer had, in fact, turned the knob on our stove just enough to fill the kitchen with gas. His intent, I must surmise, was to see me overcome with fumes while I filled his bowl with Iams. He would then exact his revenge for every time I've kicked him off the bed by ripping out my carotid artery with his teeth and rolling around the floor in my blood.

He's a vicious little bastard, isn't he?

You know he really hates you when he brings you a pack of cigarettes with your slippers.
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