My mom has two dogs, a cat (and my sister), each a colorful character in its own right. Doom Kitty has seniority, but has been expounded on elsewhere, and as it should happen, is now devoid of relevance, living out the remainder of his plague-ridden days, like Elizabeth Báthory, locked away in the castle keep.
I was still living in the area five or so years ago when my mom adopted a micro-puppy called Bristol (named after the micro-Nascar track). He was the runt of the litter, lost and found camouflaged in some grass of modest height. He’s a black lab, but never did get too big. Instead, it seems, his genes were selected for speed and stealth.
More recently, this year in fact, the family adopted a splotchy puppy called DJ (named after the Nascar driver), whom had been found abandoned, tied to a garbage heap. Unlike Bristol, DJ’s genes were brewed for strength, his frame built out like a tank. He is also still very much a puppy, eating shoes, digging holes, eating people.
The principal cast introduced, hilarity ensues…