Our mixed breed, roadside rescue, spoiled rotten dog recently decided to go whoring around the neighborhood as if she were the hottest dog in the canine kingdom. That night out on the town resulted in the arrival of five furry little poop machines who are now living in the garage and making me feel guilty for not getting their mama spayed all those times I definitely could have but procrastinated just a little too much. Now we suffer.
I had decided not to name them. Giving them names would make it seem as if they were a part of the family, but they're not. Or at least they won't be for long, because I hope to have a long line of animal lovers lined up to take them off my hands as soon as the little monsters can choke down solid food.
Nevertheless, I have spent the last twenty minutes hunkered down on the garage floor, calling them by their rightful monikers: Bitchy, Whiny, Fuckin'Hungry, Stinky and Faceplant.
(Bitchy is my favorite. She's so fluffy and cute and she wuvs her Ness, yes she does.)