My sister showed up seven hours early yesterday to free me from my own personal beagle hell. I immediately fell prostrate onto the floor and passed out in my own drool while Leta circled my body, stuck her fingers in my nose, and assessed which body parts of mine to salvage.
When my sister picked up the dog she asked as if expecting me to nod in total agreement, “He’s a good boy, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” I lied, and wanted to qualify my answer by saying that if deranged monkeys regularly hang from your ceiling and stick their rear ends in your lasagna and paint their faces with their own feces, then, yes, that beagle is an appropriate companion.
I was so happy to have only one neutered creature inhabiting the house again until Leta woke up from her nap and started asking for Bo. She looked around frantically, left and right and up and down saying his name over and over again as if he was the one who had to stick cabbage in his bra to calm the swelling of his boobs. I will hold this over her head for the rest of her life particularly whenever she wants to borrow money. REMEMBER THE CABBAGE, LETA.