Alright, now for those of you that don't know,
we have a Rottweiler named Otis,
and Otis, of course, is a big baby.
But for the most part, he's a good dog.
"Of course, he's a good dog because he's mama's little baby."
"That's right, I'm mama's little baby, but I'm still mean!
I'm a big bad mean dog, bark bark!"
Well, that being said,
Otis does have a few bad habits that he needs to get rid of.
Like for one, he likes to sit around the house like this,
which honestly makes me uncomfortable.
I don't know why, maybe it's because his dick's touching the carpet.
I mean, who the hell wants dog dick to touch the carpet for Christ's sake?
Like I said, Otis is a big baby,
but he still likes to pretend that he's mean and scary,
but his ass is about as intimidating
as a goddamn Teletubby.
Hell, I watched him bark at a basketball for like 20 minutes straight one time,
and that basketball couldn't give two shits.
Not to mention, Otis needs constant attention,
else he'll throw a fit like some kind of moody teenager.
"Nobody rubbed my belly this morning,
so I tore up this stuffed animal,
and then I humped whatever was left of it."
But out of all of Otis' bad habits,
I'd have to say that the most annoying one
is when he brings in shit from the outside.
(phooey!)
"Hey, I found this giant tree branch outside,
and now it's my new best friend."
And he brings in all sorts of crazy shit from outside.
We're talking branches, rocks,
some kid's fucking Big Wheel, he doesn't give a damn.
(thud!)
"I don't know what the hell this thing is,
but I love it and it's my new best friend."
Well, imagine our surprise when one morning
Otis' ass comes inside the house covered in blood,
and then he spits out a fucking bone on the living room floor.
"Oh, sick! What the hell?!"
"Hey, I made another new best friend!
It's this dead thing outside, that I've been rolling around in."
So naturally, I start freaking out,
thinking there's a fucking dead body in our backyard.
So I go outside and inspect the fucking crime scene.
And lo and behold, there's a goddamn blood trail
that leads to the bottom of our deck.
So now I have to scurry my ass under there with a flashlight,
looking like a fucking Goonie searching for Chester Copperpot and shit.
Thankfully, it wasn't a human corpse that I found.
Instead, it was a...
well, it was a fucking animal corpse of some sort.
I don't know if it was a raccoon or a possum or a fucking...
ocelot.
I don't know what the hell it was,
it was dead as hell, I can tell you that.
So naturally, I fling the corpse out into the fucking woods with a shovel,
and that's the end of the story.
Or at least that's what I thought was the end of it,
until a few days later, when Otis' ass waltzes back into the living room
covered in blood again.
"Hi everybody, I got a bunch of red on me."
"Oh no, not again!
God damn it, Otis, stop desecrating animal corpses!"
But upon further inspection,
we realized that he's not covered in the blood of a raccoon/possum/ocelot.
It's Otis's own blood.
"Oh my God, mama's little baby is bleeding!"
"Wait, what? That's Otis' blood?"
"Yeah, and I can't tell where it's coming from.
He's got so much fur, there's too much fur!
God damn it, go to the bathroom and get the razor,
we have to shave the dog!"
So I run to the bathroom,
and instead of shaving the dog like some kind of psychopath,
I grab a towel.
And with that towel I wrap Otis up like a fucking taquito,
and I haul him out to the car, so we can take him to the vet.
Now, it's important to note,
we still have no idea what the hell happened to Otis.
Did some kid hit him with a fucking dirt bike?
Was he attacked by a posse of coyotes?
Maybe he's the victim of a cruel prank at prom in a Stephen King novel?
Who the hell knows.
So now my wife's driving through the neighborhood,
like a fucking 6-year-old playing Grand Theft Auto.
Meanwhile, I'm in the back seat,
looking like a goddamn Reservoir Dogs scene.
We finally get to the emergency vet,
and at first we have no idea, what the hell to even tell the receptionist.
"Uh, yeah, we don't know, if like our dog tripped and fell,
or if he got shot by a rifle,
but he's bleeding all over the place."
"Uh, okay, is that why you wrapped him up like a goddamn gordita?"
"See? We should've shaved him!
I fucking told you we should've shaved the dog!"
So they take Otis in the back to see what the hell is going on with him.
Meanwhile, we sit down in the waiting room
with all the other neglectful pet owners.
"Hey, what brings you guys in today?"
"Uhm, we don't really know exactly."
"Oh that's cool,
I'm here because I knocked a can of beer into my fish tank
and now my pet turtle is all fucked up."
"Oh, okay, well, I'm sorry to hear that."
So like an hour and a half goes by,
and all of a sudden, Otis comes tap dancing out,
like nothing ever happened.
"I got a boo-boo on my paw,
but they made it all better,
and I'm still a scary-scary boy,
bark bark bark!"
"Oh my God, is mama's little baby okay?"
"Oh yeah, he's all right,
he just broke a nail on his left paw."
"Wait, what? All that blood and he just broke a goddamn nail?"
"Yeah, sometimes they bleed quite a bit,
but he's okay.
Oh and sir, your drunk-ass turtle is fine, he just needs to sleep it off."
"Get your hands off me, lady, I'm not sleeping shit off!
Come on, let's go to Taco Bell!"
So all in all, let me summarize what the hell happened that day.
First, we hauled a 120-pound Rottweiler burrito into the car.
Then we committed 14 moving violations to get him to the vet.
And finally, we paid that vet $600,
all so Otis could get a fucking manicure.
But in the end we were just happy that Otis was okay,
and he was back to his non-intimidating self in no time.
Granted, he was missing a front claw for a while,
which his temperamental ass was very self-conscious about.
"Are you guys looking at my missing claw?
Stop it or else I'm going to go rip up a roll of toilet paper,
and then hump whatever's left of it."
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