Random Esquire

On Monday night, I went out to eat.  I returned home and promptly snapped my key off in the lock to my front door.  I proceeded to try to tug out the snub of key, thereby rattling the doorknob around.  This, of course, informed Little Filthy that I was home.  However, it also appeared to inform him that while I was home, I was completely uninterested in seeing him or seeing to the needs of his bowels.  As I wiggled the key, I heard long, wretched cries from the other side of the door.  Actually, as I write this, it threatens to be unbelievably long.  Let me just summarize:

Locksmith comes.  Proceeds to stick it to me.  Drills out the lock. Wants to install another lock.  I decline his offer to install a $20 lock for $120.  Fuck that.  I’ll just kill anyone who walks through the bloody door.

Next day, I wake up to find cherry stems spread around living room.  Stupidly, I left cherry pits on the coffee table.  Little Filthy attempts to look innocent while I have a Come-To-Jesus-Moment.

Cherry pits = Toxic.

Cherry pits = cyanide.

Website searching, friend asking, dog eyeballing.

Emergency Vet call.

Hydrogen peroxide goes down Little Filthy’s throat, to his complete surprise, disgust, and amazement.

Little Filthy stares.  I reach under him and wiggle his belly.

Vomit.

Cherry pits.

Little Filthy STARE.

Sorry, Little Filthy.