Winnie, my red, long-haired dachshund, eats mud. I was laying on my bed, trying to be a day-sleeper, and Winnie The Weiner came in the doggie-door, jumped up on the bed, and put Andy Warhol-esque art all over my chest. Loads of the same image....muddy footprints in pseudo-India Ink...redundantly speckled my lilly-white flesh (the thermostat was set too high, and I was too tired to get out of bed to turn it down), equally as aesthetically-balanced as Warhol's Campbells soup montage. I would have been mad, but this little doggie is brain-damaged from something denting her cranial soft-spot when she was a pup, so she is as intelligent as soup ladle. Gotta love her (or hire a hit-man to strike her, again, in the center of her poor butt-shaped skull). While she was on me, wagging her muddy-black tail, she opened her mouth to expose what looked like Barbie's black bowling ball.
"There's something in her throat!" I yelled, doing my best impersonation of that forensics weasel from The Silence of the Lambs.
I made a hook-shape from my very long, sexy, index-and middle phalanges. I scooped the hook into her blackened pie-hole, and flung out a round mass of mud, and probably tetanus, earth-worm turd, and a touch of radon.
"You're gonna kill yourself, you moron", I said.
She was still wagging her tail, when she looked at the orb in my hand. She sniffed it, and her eyes seemed to say, "That's cool. Where did that come from?"
I went in the bathroom to wash my violated breasts. I took the skissors (I like to say skissors), and I snipped dried mud off of her paws. It took about fifteen minutes, being careful not to whack off her Naugahyde pads.
WHY CAN'T I SLEEP? I've got to work the midnight shift, tonight! GRrrrr...!
I took about 52 Benedryl, so I could have a short siesta.
Wieners...sigh...Can't live with 'em, can't kill 'em.
