“Comes with all shots, leash, collar, kennel, toys, and lots of love to give!”
Wow. So you’ve already invested $20 bucks? Remember that one asshole kid on the block who you hated, but he had a trampoline so you had to pretend to like him? Much like that scenario, I suspect you’re trying to blind me with objects. I’m telling you right now, no matter how nice that leash is, and there are some nice ones out there, it’s only a matter of time until I notice that the creature on the end of it is a complete piece of shit.
“Hi! I’m a loving cocker spaniel with no qualms about playing in the mud! I like long walks, car rides, and sticking my head out the window!”
Regardless of how I feel about the dog, your use of the first-person leads me to believe that you’re either so fucking out of it that there is no dog at all, or you’ve lost touch with reality and are going to kill me in some kind of home invasion scenario using the dog as a tracking device to find my home. No thanks.
“We have a 2 year-old pitbull who is very protective, a little standoffish with strangers, but GREAT with kids.”
We have transformed our dog into a complete fucking monster who, like a burned-out war veteran, does not have any place in society. He is great with (the meat of) kids (in his tummy fueling his murderous rage).
“Our Daschund is wonderful, but unfortunately he’s not getting along with our new dog.”
Great. So you bought another dog without considering the consequences. I hope for your sake that if you procreate you only have one child because, unfortunately, if your kids don’t get along you can’t just take the older, less cute one and try to unload him on some family before eventually abandoning him at the humane society in a crate before they open, only to be reminded of him when his toys roll out from under the seat in your car every so often.
“15 year-old Lab looking for quiet home to spend golden years.”
Jesus Christ. I’m not running a dog hospice here. This isn’t like your father who gets old and obnoxious and eventually, after a period of having him live at home until it nearly destroys your marriage, you have to move him into a home. The difference? You couldn’t just walk your father into a building, lift him onto a table, and pet him while an injection kills him peacefully.
Nobody’s saying you have to finish the dog yourself with a butcher knife. Have some fucking guts.