Gypsy Dog

Our dog, the Tuck, rules the roost. Seriously. He paws at us, we take him out, he whines at us, we pick him up, he brings us a toy, we throw it. He apparently sent us to obedience classes...and we excelled with flying colors.

Having the Tuck around is like having a built in comedian. We make him dance, we give him silly hair cuts, and we pretend he talks like Borat. Fun, right? Until the little monster needs to go outside. And it's not even so bad when he only has to pee, but it's a bitch when he has to go #2. Especially because we apparently live in high society wherein our homeowner's association takes 900 years to approve the plans for our fence so our dog can crap in our backyard. Wait, we should probably submit those plans first...

Anyway, the boy and I are in a constant war over who has to take the dog out, plastic bag in hand. The most common method of solving this complex problem is rock, paper, scissors.

For the third time in a row...V.I.C.T.O.R.Y. This time with papahhh.