This new puppy is ruining my life, and greatly contributing to my future as an alcoholic. My brother called to check in on things last night and I vented my frustrations.
“Ben this dog is so wild. I am not sure I can handle her.”
“Yes, Sarah, you can. You’re just not used to puppies. Daisy was never a real puppy, she was more like an aging butch lesbian when you adopted her.”
“I guess… I just can’t deal with wild.”
“Her namesake was probably just as wild in her youth. You probably jinxed the dog by naming her after Rosie.”
“Not possible. Did Human Rosie eat boxes?”
“I can’t say for sure.”
“What about underwear? Do you think human Rosie chewed on those?”
“Without a doubt… I also expect your dog to fall in love with Frank Sinatra and pick up a nasty smoking habit any day now.”
I hung up with Ben and walked outside to find that Rosie has dragged all my purses into the backyard. I ran back inside to see what other damage she had done and found this:
I think it’s safe to say the bitch will live another day. I’m a sucker for cute.