Wednesday, January 4, 2012

Please Stop Trying To Kill My Dog

Just back from a walk with Lina. She's devouring food and water and is in a Corgi happiness state - in other words, just fine. She is lucky.

Five minutes into the walk (in the middle of the night) I catch her chomping on something. Tell me, is there a thing where people eat fried chicken in the middle of a grassy park area and then just leave the bones there for neighbor dogs to find? Because it sure as hell happens a lot around here.

So Lina's eating a chicken bone, which is bad news because they break apart easily under the power of mighty canine jaws and turn into pointy shards that can tear up Corgi insides.

This is a beef bone. That's different. And she was supervised.

I get the potentially-fatal bone away from Lina (no small feat - thanks dog), take three steps, and hear the tinkle of breaking glass under my feet.

Broken glass! A whole bottle's worth of pointy shards! My dog does not wear shoes!

Artist's rendition of a dog who got carried home tonight.

One explanation is that my neighbors are just slobs. That's the simple explanation, but I can't believe it. I have to assume my neighbors are actively trying to kill my dog, probably in retaliation for some Cosa Nostra shit she got up to when she was a puppy that I'll never know about.

Lina practicing Omerta.

It is clearly time to move, preferably somewhere where black-suited thugs are not waiting in bushes to grab my dog and take her into the back room with the rubber hoses.

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