I used to be a sappy, squeezy, snuggly dog person, but after the unspeakable incident of ’03, I have made my heart dead inside. To an extent. So even the cuteness of Tonto fails to arouse a wellspring of joy.
I feel like Jemima looks. Oh, the ennui.
Barely tolerating the wretched burden of this life thrown upon her. She used to be a contender, dining on duck treats in a pre-Hurricane Katrina Big Easy, but then she got craigslisted by the lumberjack-bearded friend of her dead owner and wound up in our back yard, hardly suffering Tontos gladly.
So she chases him. Tries to chase the stupid out of him. To no avail.
And still she is bored. And still he is stupid.