Saturday Night College Street Guys, seriously: Throw your effing chicken bones in the trash instead of dropping them on the ground like the borderline-rapist cavemen you are.
Because you KNOW I’m going to see your late-night drunk garbage on the sidewalk and think it’s an abandoned treat, and before J can rattle off a clap to scare the thing from snout, *boom*, hematoma of the mouth! Via jagged-bone-stabbing (under my tongue).
Yeah, your shoddy chicken bones punctured the floor of my mouth. I had to be sedated to get the shards out. With a needle. A long, scary, please-don’t-let-it-be-the-kind-from-the-bad-room needle. When I woke up my mouth tasted like cotton and fear.
Now it hurts to eat food, drink water, and taste carrot. At least until J hooks me up with one of those wads of peanut butter with the crunchy round thing in the centre. They make everything better.
In fact, he just gave me one a few minutes ago. And it’s starting to kick in. Whoa. Man. Peanut butter is so crazy. My paws look HUGE. And they’re so soft. Seriously. Touch my paw. Touch it.
I wonder how long my body can go?
