So apparently I'm about to divulge what is known in some parts as "T.M.I.", but quite frankly, I don't care. It's my blog, and I tell it like it is. Why cut corners? I leave the nuances of navigating social norms to the homo sapiens.
The human pet ate a baby poo burrito and got violently ill this evening.
By "baby poo burrito", I mean a suspicious, liquefied brown blend of bean and cheese which resembled the mushed and mashed mixture mother birds surely concoct when they chew and process food only to regurgitate it back to their young.
And by "violently", I mean doubled-over, arms wrapped around midsection, solidly working on the gag reflex because, by all means, let's not get crazy and puke in the living room even though certain puppies who shall remain nameless still have accidents involving poop and pee in that very area, and we're so beyond that so instead, let's just run back and forth to the bathroom until we've completed the third installment of the Ironman Challenge.
I'm sure you get the picture.
If not, let me know, and I will have Ares draw you a rendition, dear reader.
The human pet will double up her search for tomorrow. With any luck, she will have regained her normal, neurotic self.