Gobble, Gobble Bitches...

A situation has developed and I'm a little scared.

Puffin is on Margaret Snatcher time, officially

This is the day Puffin waits all year to celebrate- the day of the giant ham bone.

A ham bone so large she can’t finish it all in one day. A monstrosity of a bone which came from the Sasquatch of pigs, Hogzilla.

The day has finally arrived, y’all, and she has posted up in the doorway between the kitchen and any other spot in my house so if I try to sneak off with her bone, she can trip me and rip my face from my skull.

Shit is on a watch list; she has prepared flyers in the case of “unforeseen circumstances”. She missed all 4 of her naps today so she could strongly side eye me, letting me know the threat is fucking real and if I value my eyebrows being attached to my forehead, I’ll take care to get her bone to her without any further delay.

In an hour or so, I’ll have it removed from the swine and delivered to this overweight brat. Then the fun part happens.

Cue hours of Puffin hiding in the hallway with her bone, blocking your view of said bone with her front feet, one eye on me every time I move a muscle. She will chew on it so loudly that my neighbors can hear her from their living rooms, but I’m expected to pretend as though there are zero clues as to what may be happening in my hallway.

She’s probably just rearranging my linen closet. Checking the air quality under the intake vent. Deciding if the hallway has adequate lighting or if can lights would be a strong option in the space.

Certainly not chewing that bone like she’s a fucking wild dingo in the bush. Crushing the marrow as she eyeballs me, like “touch my shank and get shanked, bitch”, and I believe her.

I do.

She barely likes me during regular daylight hours. Quite frankly, this bitch is always looking for a reason to cold shoulder me to tears.

Over this bone?

This bitch will chew a fucking sunroof into my body, no questions.

If anyone would like a plate, feel free to stop in. However, don’t go down that hall.

If it’s not taking place in the living room, it ain’t taking place.

I hope y’all have plans that don’t involve losing a limb to your half-beagle bitch of a dog, but if you don’t, there’s no shame in admitting defeat. I’m well aware my home is held hostage by someone who isn’t even 2’ tall.

This dog Charles in Charge’s me. She’s the Joint Chief of Staffies here, throwing her weight around like she has her name on the fucking utility bills.

For the record, nothing is addressed to Puffin Elizabeth Hawkins unless it is shipped from Chewy.

I’ll talk to y’all after the yams are gone. Unless Puffin has other plans for me. I should probably check with her before I make any solid plans, actually. Might be best.

-Q