It was sometime around my freshman year of college when I got the call. I still remember it to this day.
Cute as a button and small as a purse, Ginger was a scampering, yipping puff of hair. She was a tiny black Pomeranian, which is classified as a toy dog breed because they're small like children's toys.
Our cousins gave her to us, back when she could fit in a mug. They called her Cookie, because she loved cookies. My Mom carried her home in her purse.
Woofer, the 170 pound Irish Wolfhound, backed his new owners to the couch and to their amazement, began speaking.
"Listen folks, this is how it's going to be…"
Benny was a big dog. A big male dog. I don't remember what kind of dog he was, except that he had a coat of tan and white fur and pointy ears.
I blame the dog for losing my pants.
Well, not the dog directly. But he was definitely indirectly involved.
"Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, DAMN."
I was in a BAD mood. Really bad. It was one of those things that just hooks onto your mind; a bait that's almost impossible to remove. My teeth were grinding against each other; the muscles of my maw were clenched tightly in a twisted mass.
Weekly random rambles, musings & writings of Mike Lee in San Francisco, CA