HOW A LITTLE BLACK DOG HELPED ME THROUGH THE BREAK-UP FROM HELL
I hate dogs. Hate ’em.
Dogs are evil eating machines that need to be eliminated from the face of the Earth and any other Earthlike surface.
I used to know this because when I was 4, a pair of vicious canine carnivores wedged themselves underneath my grandpa’s backyard fence in Minneapolis and chased after me — a sweet, delicious snack, despite my lack of teriyaki sauce — before I found a gate I could lock myself behind and summarily pee myself from sheer terror. I pretty much avoided anything furry after that. Rest in peace, Aunt Gladys, but your untweezered facial hair gave me post-traumatic stress disorder.
This went on until a visit to my uncle’s farm a few years later, when I was introduced to a cute little German Shepherd puppy. He was playful and affectionate and tried to hump my 8-year-old leg. I liked him. A year later, I returned and found that the cute little puppy was now a full-grown adult with bloodlust in his eyes. This time, he tried to rip my entrails out. But hey, at least I was still delicious!
Then, nearly 30 years later, came Rufus.
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