The Dog's Second Worst Day Ever

Weather: Humid and 81 degrees.
Mood: Surprisingly cheery. Super Cheery.
Number Dead: Dare I?
Bullets Remaining: 97, I know. There's one I haven't told you about.

Following excerpt is a "from the vault" especial. This is about two years ago when the count and I were dating. It is a warm summer afternoon when the actors enter the room. The summer has been moist and fraught with the battle of the bugs, ticks, etc.


So, here we are petting the dog. I am rubbing under his neck and on his stomach. It's business as usual. I feel a lump. It's black. Not pumped. We've been battling ticks and fleas all summer because of the rain. We hadn't seen the sun for more than one day, much unlike the recent desert-like weather...

When it started to rain three days ago, my first thought when a drop hit my shoulder was that a bird had shit on me, rather than the possibility of rain. What f'ed up world do I live in where bird poop is more probable than precipitation? Moving this story right along...

I call The Count into the room. Backup is most definitely needed. I'll pull the tick if I must, but The Count loves all of these special little moments where he gets to show off his manhood (I have no idea if this is true, but it seems funny, so there you go) to pull this horrible tick from the dog's arm pit. The Count has the tweezers in his grasp and is attempting to tug the tick off. Now everybody knows that this tick isn't coming out with just a little tug.

Animal lovers around the world know, if you are going to pull a tick out, as opposed to burning it out, or "smoking it out of its hole," to use a Bushism, you are going to have to put some gusto into the tugging.

So The Count is yanking while I hold the dog, trying to pull the body apart from the head of this tick. We both keep looking at the dog, who is sitting as placid as a cow, waiting for him to squirm or panic. But not our dog, cool as a cucumber.

Get a better grip on the tweezers and keep going. What is probably 2 minutes feels like two hours of holding the dog. I don't know what finally clued us in, I guess it was when Squeaker, yes dammit his name is Squeaker, gave us The Rock's patented People's Eyebrow-you know the rock, even non-wrestling fans know The Rock-and we somehow figured out that tugging wasn't going to do the trick.

We lean in closer to get a look at the mut and his tick. The count touches it with his finger-gag. Gag again for posterity's sake. Eew. The Count and I have to have a thinking moment and then, slower than "special" kids doing Geometry, the light bulb comes on.

The tick isn't a tick. The tick is a mole.

Worse, it's a mole on a nipple.

Better than discovering that the three-headed dog was protecting the Sorcerer's Stone, the Count and I discovered that the reason why the dog wasn't squirmy or pissed is because this whole time we were gently pinching and tugging on his nipple. Fuck. Squeaker 1. The Count and Myself, 0.