F*$%ing Balls

Sordid Puppy felt pointedly sordid today, and not because he's awfully torn on the subject of whether wearing cartoon characters on one's shirt (a la Lot29 or this new ish from Disney 19twentyeight) is slyly gangster or purely silly. What had his fur all a-prickly today was the anticipation of a trip to the emergency room, made necessary by the disovery of a particularly troubling pest of a "mass" in your hero's nether regions. Earlier today, S. Puppy, administering (as any dog with half a brain should) a little self-perlustration while taking a doggy bath, came across a distressing little bastard of a object in his doggy bag.

As awful wankers found in the worst possible places go, this manky piece of work was especially worrying because it fit the profile of, well, the sort of thing that makes a puppy wonder if, god forbid, he's got this. With great trepidation, then, S. Puppy crept over to the E.R. to face his fate, however dire it might have been. Initial examination was not encouraging; the vet who saw Puppy wasn't at all confident that the letter right after beluga but just before dingo wouldn't rear its fearsome head.

To the ultrasound, then, Puppy -- what's that you say? Pregnant, noo, you're not pregnant; well, at least not with cute little Sordid Puppy babies. We fear you may be carrying a load of a different, and decidedly less cute, sort, though weighty nonetheless.

One fainting studio gangster and several tubes of weird sound-repelling gel later, your favorite hound is returned to the E.R. via wheelchair (sittin' on 26" spinners, naturally). Torturous conversations with nurses-in-training are had -- "Well, y'know, I was talkin to some kids the other day at our summer program about TSEs and they, y'know, were gigglin and such, and I just said, 'Hey, y'know, it's not funny! These things happen mostly to young men!' Y'know? Hey, did you say you were from Ireland?"

That's right, missy. An Irish dog am I, and your words of underhanded malice, crafted to sicken me with fear, don't impress me. Now excuse me as I pass out. Again.

S.Puppy awoke, slowly at first, to a Big Mac dangled just under his snout. "Ah hah!" exclaimed a radiologist. "I knew it would work! Always does with these types." Puppy chose to ignore the gawky imbecile's derisive comment and devoured the all-beef patties. Then, our man heard news more delicious than the freshest Whopper Jr. he'd had the pleasure of tasting: no death sentence would be handed down today. Rather, a, well, if you really want to know then here it is -- anyway, this dog will live to, er, lay about for another day. Follow-up meetings and future ultrasounds seemed like invitations to parties that all the prettiest poodles would attend. All was well, and Puppy felt an onus lift off his shoulders. He then fainted.

He trotted straight off to Runza after being discharged I haven't seen him since. Am I worried? Not at all -- let him eat all the double cheeseburgers he wants, I say. Every dog has his day.