My life seems to be punctuated by shit explosions, both literal and metaphorical. This time it was literal. Again. Fitz managed to weasel her way into the garbage and score herself two freezer-burned ham steaks that were about a combined quarter her body weight. She's a tiny dog. She was happy, briefly, until she let loose all over the floor in both bathrooms. Even her pee was full of shit.
She was happy. I was not.
I needed rubber gloves and a whole lot of resolve, but I'm hardcore.
I hate you sometimes, Fitz.