If you are one of those people who believe men are dogs, you need to calm down your excitement. Not everything is about you and your unresolved insecurities. This is about our dog. This is about a real dog, not a human dog.
Some time back, I filled some online questionnaire for a job I had applied for. Along the way, I met some question asking me if I was a dog person or a cat person. I thought they wanted to know if I liked dogs or cats better, to which I was going to reply none. But doing things without consultations in this country has always lead to bitter name calling here and there since 2007, so I consulted our good friend Google on what it thought about that question. Turns out dog-people are people who are outgoing and social while cat-people are introverts. See why consultations are good? Anyway, we have reached that point where we describe our characters using animals. And we brag how the human race is the superior race in the universe.
I digressed. I guess you should now be used to that, especially if you were born and bred in Africa. We never go straight to the point. “Brief and to the point” is not our portion. I intended to tell you that I recently got tired of life in the city, so I travelled back home. Actually, I got tired of life. I’m just blaming it on the city because looking for scapegoats is a national treasure. I got home safely (thanks for asking), maize is doing great, dad still won’t let anyone else wear his sandals though he rarely wears them himself, and the World Cup is 22 days away.
Our dog is also still alive. That doesn’t make me sad, but it doesn’t make me happy either. I don’t like pets, mainly because they think everyone owes them playtime. The cat is still around too. It has survived the dog’s claws by, at one time, spending three days straight on top of a tree. The last two cats weren’t that wise and patient.
The problem with our dog, apart from killing innocent cats, is that now has brought home a wife. And the wife was already pregnant when it got hitched, so it gave birth to its puppies at our place. I am 100 percent sure our dog didn’t sire the puppies because I witnessed its castration.
At first, I thought the bitch was just a stray dog that had cut a hole in our fence so I awarded myself the tender of chasing it out. After doing that a couple of times, I realized it was either too dumb to realize it wasn’t welcome here or was just a reincarnate of some stubborn spirit. Then I found out it had its puppies beneath our chicken coop. Now I can’t chase it away because it would be heartless to leave the puppies without motherly love. It would even be more heartless to throw the puppies over the fence too. As you are reading this, I’m looking for fare back to the city. I can’t stand this shit!
Anyway, isn’t it amazing that a bitch could leave a fertile dog and settle for a castrated one? If you are going to ‘awwwww’, don’t! It is not cute, neither is it amazing. Our dog is those relatives who ask to stay with you for a while as they find their footing then end up marrying in your house, and expect you to provide for the expectant girlfriend too. Fumblush.
If this is a signal from ‘mama’ that I should now be settling down, I am choosing to ignore it. And please don’t send any further signals.
In other news, a friend asked me to do a guest post on their blog. And since I’m a gentleman like that, I know that you do as Romans do when you go to Rome. So I browsed through her site first to get an idea of what type of content to do. The girl child is the woke type. She even says how she once did weed to confirm if it is true it helps with menstrual pain. How cute. I mean, I know people who do weed only because they can’t lay their hands on stronger drugs. I tried to be woke, and I couldn’t even last a paragraph. I also ended up with a running nose that has been on for the last three days. If you need some positivity in your life, find time and read through http://nderitu-she.com/.
In other other news, everyone I voted for at the BAKE Awards won. Unlike in the elections where everyone I voted for lost. I now know where my vote counts, and it doesn’t involve queueing for 6 hours next to sweaty unsettled people.