Woof.

I don't know what to say. I've had a really good day, despite having one hell of a staff shortage at work, due to this new Zombie Clench/Withering Flu that's been pasting people upside the head for the last week like a sock full a nickels. Everyone's sick, and according to Regular Mike (the big beefy guy who comes in for a medium medium and chased away the skiddy punks who were demanding smokes from passersby outside our shop yesterday, but that's another story...), you can't visit people in the hospital in Ontario now without undergoing a full-on Alien Abduction Probe, due to the fact that they seem to be fighting off THREE separate Superbugs out there.

Man, you shoulda seen Josh just wilt when he heard that.

The good news: we got to close at 10:00 instead of midnight, and we put up signs saying that it was because of Zombie Infestation ("Watch out! Be safe! Wash your hands!").

The bad news: My dog Chewie was put to sleep yesterday.



It's okay; he's close to sixteen years old, and not in the best of health. Wasn't in the best of health. This is honestly for the best. I shouldn't say my dog; he was the family dog. Hell, he outlasted one of my brothers, if you'll forgive a little bit of gallows humour. He had a good life; he was loved, he was never abused, I always let him sleep on my bed, both when I lived at home and when I went to visit the family in Vancouver, and he'd do this thing where he'd force his head under your hand and lick your palm until you fell asleep, and when you woke up in the morning, you'would find out that he'd actually pushed you out of the bed; you never took him for a walk, it always the other way around, he chased after squirrels like nobody's business, he left piles of shit that would rival a lumberjack on after breakfast, he tore the living hell out of footballs, basketballs, soccer balls, baseballs, and golf balls - shit, he'd eat through anything; hence his name (and you thought we were trashy enough to name him after a fucking movie? Bitch, please...).

The last time I saw him, he couldn't really see, he could barely hear, and his hips were going on him. I mean, he was strong enough to come see who I was, and when he finally recognized me, he was as happy as ever, making me rub his belly, wanting to play fetch with the basketball that'd deflated long ago due to puncture-wounds - although I have to admit, over the last few years, it was less a game of fetch, and more like "Chris Throws The Ball And Chewie Just Watches With His Tongue Hanging Out".

It's just...damn, y'know? He was my dog.



That's all I'm saying on the matter. If you try to talk to me about it when you see me at work, I'll fucking deck you. Don't call to console me, I'm fucking fine. Just go out and buy your dog a big slab of beef for dinner tonight, because chance are, he puts up with a lot more from you than you do from him. If you don't have dog, then, well, what the hell is wrong with you?

I'm gonna go get drunk and try to shoot Nazis. I'll see y'all tomorrow.