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“And have him eavesdropping on our every conversation,” Henry told his wife, “thanks but no thanks, we will not be naming that puppy Milhouse, and that’s final.”
Still, dogs must die; and in the end, When he is past caressing, We’ll mourn him like some human friend Whose presence was a blessing.
Baby’s sleeping with my best friend, dog is chewing up my loafers and the taxman’s come a’knockin’ on my woehome.
When you got down to it, Maddy and her dog really had nothing in common, except a hatred of dog baths.
After countless teeny tiny generations, fleas had finally achieved the invisibility mutation, which, for a long while, made many a pooch look like a damned hypochondriac.
My dogs are the neighborhood dogs you love to hate at 4:30 in the morning.
Because the state couldn’t find a way to tax my soul, I was informed by their accountant that I was free to do with it as I pleased, but that any pursuits that resulted in monetary gain would need to be reported; later that day two Mormon boys stopped by the house to to give me what I often refer to as “spiritual accounting” advice, but I told them that I still found spiritual taxation without representation preferable to anything I’d read in their pamphlets, thanked them for their time, then turned the dog loose to hasten things along.
I’ve never eaten dog or played poker with one although I’d like to do both someday, but not both with the same dog since that would make me sad, unless, of course, he’d cleaned me out at the table.
The dog obviously had worms, Henry noted, but apparently not bad enough to attract any fish.
Long before he reached the pet door on stiff, rheumy legs, Towser could already tell the storm had picked up strength; he took a moment to weigh inconvenience against the pain of derision before turning toward the kitchen rug with a sigh.
I used to envy most my dog's life, but lately I think the best job in the animal world involves flinging poo and whacking off in public.
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