Cage Match

So last week I climbed inside the internet and dragged the Metal Crate of Endless Sorrow* towards Craigslist. Terrible mistake.

Not the trying-to-get-rid-of-it part (that wiry monstrosity is the opposite of dreams where I lope joyfully through thickets of tall grass), but the part where I foolishly left my contact information inside the thing.

“Is the crate made of steel?” I have no idea. It’s metal? I can’t bite through it?

“Is it absolutely unused?” J wrestled me into it once. Then I yelped rape for five minutes and he never tried again.

“We may be interested, but we’re not getting our puppy from the breeder until September. Could you wait until then and then we can bring her to try it?”

Try it? Try it? Listen. It’s a crate. It’s made of metal. It’s unused. It’s going for a third of what Ms. P paid for it in the store. All this was covered in the post. Your inbred designer cot-death pre-order pup is going to hate it, because it’s constructed of six interlaced walls of unbreakableness and isn’t a satisfying replacement for the soft mothering nuzzles of the puppy farm sex slave that whelped her.

So no. J isn’t going to hold onto it until September. And you can’t try it. But you know what you can try? Barking off.

*Note: Will trade crate for treats. Any treats.

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