It’s not the part where I have to dress myself, fly downstairs, hook her up, get the key and race her to the elevator so she can’t position herself to bang out a revenge pile. This is my dog I’m talking about. No that’s not the hard part. The hard part is holding onto her while she’s pulling harder than Rudolph. That and dodging completely bare chicken bones. These things have not a sign of flesh left on ’em. These bones are down to the marrow and decorating the morning sidewalk like they belong.
Hey bones. You don’t belong. Move it.