Of Pasta and Puppies

I was talking on the phone, when I entered my apartment. The lights were off but something wasn’t right. Something stunk. The stench was between porta-potty and baby that ate curry.

“Hang on, Rhodey” I said into the phone. I flipped on the lights and shit was everywhere. My new puppy had christened every room in the house with chunky lumps.

“Goddamnit.” I sighed.

“What?” Curiosity tinged Rhodes’ voice.

“My puppy shit all over the house.”

“Doesn’t that thing have a name yet?”

“I’ve decided to be one of those guys and name it after Italian food.”

“Better than Asian food, I guess.” Rhodes chuckled. “What’re you down to?”

“I’m torn between Linguini and Penne. Oh and Curly. You know after those corkscrew shaped noodles.

“Those are actually called Rotini, but go on with your bad self. I’m not going to be any help there.”

“Maybe not. You got any idea on what I can to do about the shitting?”

“You gotta rub his nose in it and then paddle him or he won’t learn. That’s from raising three dogs of my own.”

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