dancing

This is my dog. He’s half beagle and half blue heeler. His name is Inu which means dog in Japanese (I am not especially creative). Some middle-aged hippy woman gave him to my wife and me four years ago for nothing, proving the old adage true that the best things in life are free. I once paid eighty bucks for a full-blooded Labrador retriever, and she wasn’t half the dog Inu is despite weighing three times as much.
You see, Inu can bite through iron rebar, outrun a Honda Prelude, and shatters glass when he barks. His mere presence impregnates every within a fifty mile radius regardless of the fact that he is neutered. His baying howl makes members of the 101st Airborne soil themselves. Varmints’ heads explode when he growls at them. Kodiak grizzlies turn tail and flee at the sight of him. Wolverines curl into a fetal position and play dead when he raises his hackles.
There has never been a Islamo-fascist terrorist act committed in the state of Missouri, because if a Muslim gets out of line around these parts my dog has intimated through a complex series of whines, growls and paw gesticulations that he will forcibly sodomize the mother of any would-be martyr before heading on to whatever hereafter camel-jockeys believe in to tear out the throat of all seventy-two of their virgins. (Of course, I encouraged this behavior by feeding him the hearts of Muslims of the despicable Wahabi sect since he was a wee pup.)
Inu put the bop in the bop-she-bop-bop and the ring in the ring-a-ding-a-ling-lang. You’d better shake his paw if you ever meet him, because, yes, he made your baby fall in love with you. Yet always remember that what Inu giveth, Inu can taketh away. If your girlfriend breaks up with you or your wife wants a divorce, you probably off my dog somehow.

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