I'm a man. Real men like big bruiser dogs such as German Shepherds, Border Collies, and Pit Bulls. Because I'm a man I complement my character with a man's dog. I own a Border Collie. She loves to run, jump, and chase Frisbees. This past sumer my wife rewarded her long hard road to becoming bilingual certified by purchasing a wussy dog, a Yorkie. I, being the macho man that I am, wanted no part in caring for this new addition. And that Yorkie fulfilled my worst nightmares. She rides in Mrs. Jeffrey Mark's Toyota like the bon-bon eating fat lady's mutt-hanging out the window, content in her Valley Girl role. (let the reader note: Mrs. JM is not a bon-bon eating fat lady) She sleeps in our bed. She sits on the finest furniture. She even eats yogurt treats so as to not lose her stunning figure.
Yet, something has gone terribly wrong. I'm losing my grip. The dog got to me. She sits in my lap, and sleeps beside me. She gives me a high five. Not long ago this little helpless squirt developed staph infection from a bad haircut. I found myself helplessly descending down the bowels of fear. "She might die," I cried to myself. Such a gloomy prospect sent me to the prayer closet. "Please dear God," I plead in secret, "Don't let little Sophie die. She seems so helpless, so innocent. Oh dear God, I will be kinder, gentler, and more loving, but don't let Sophie die."
My prayers ascended to the Almighty. He spared our Sophie. I'm now filled with compassion for this little Yorkie. She taught me to love more faithfully and live more charitably. Take a look at the picture below. She's all decked out in her new Christmas do. Who can resist this little cutie? Every man deserves a Yorkie. By the way, I now must iconically fix my eyes on Clint Eastwood photos simply to maintain my manly disposition.