When he heard this news he took a huge shit right next to my bedroom door.
Your angry email should have the words “dew claws” somewhere in the subject.
He should be glad that I didn’t buy any nipple rings during my travels.
If Mormons did genealogy on dogs they’d trace Chuck back to Tanzania. And then have him baptized in the name of his ancestors.
He knew this would happen when he saw what I’d brought the girls from Africa.
This cat may never enjoy a name of its own except in my household where pictures of it are a high commodity.
Taming all his luscious locks is not as easy as you might think.
Where there are no fences or cat doors or off-leash parks.
With apologies to the skiers and snowboarders who are shaking their fists at the sky.
Yet another episode of Chuck in my closet.