dog daze

Oedipus, my chihuahua-great-dane attack dog, is full into teen-emo-angst right now. We're in constant danger, but every time I point out a masked man with a gun, or a wild-haired Chinese kung-fu master swinging a pair of nun chucks, he just huffs melodramatically, like he doesn't even have the energy to lift his lips out of the way of his breath, let alone save our lives -- existence is MEANINGLESS. Pointless as a naked porcupine. Let's make love, Connor Oberst.

It worries me a lot -- maybe I pushed too hard with the attack training, and now he's like some broken down Ugandan child soldier crossed with an Asian kid who's mom makes him play piano. You know, just way too much pressure way too early. Although, on the plus side, he's not going to go "goth" on me -- I put the Cure's first album and some Hot Topic boots out on the floor as a test, and he tore the Cure up and ignored the CD and shoes.

This is a pretty recent development -- maybe the last month or so. I hope he picks up, because I am pretty damn tired of Bright Eyes.



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