I don’t want to be “that guy” who tells more stories about his dog, but this one…well, this one must be told.
The scene: my two oldest kids’ room, 5:30 AM Monday
I walked into the room, confident that there was a disturbance in the force and my normally non-chewing dog had chewed something the night before. How right I was. In the floor, there were little bits of paper that had formerly been a small stack of index cards on the kids’ shelf. But interspersed among the paper were little pieces of unidentified plastic.
I crept around the room silently so as not to wake the kids or the dog, picking up the aforementioned plastic bits, looking at them closely from the light in the hallway, even sniffing them to figure out what the heck Sipsy had chewed.
And then I saw it.
In the corner, a partially-eaten object that shall be identified as…shall we say…an athletic supporter.
And not the good kind of athletic supporter…you know, the kind that sits in the bleachers, pays dues to a booster club, and displays 67 team magnets on the backside of their SUV. Yeah, not that kind…the bad kind.
So what’s worse, dear readers? The fact that my dog chewed that sucker up?
Or the fact that I was picking up the pieces and sniffing ’em?!?
Editor’s Note: The author is confident he will receive much negative publicity as a result of this post and his choice of the words “athletic supporter.” But really, how much more humiliation and torment could he suffer?