My Mum's Babies

I've visiting my mother's house and I'm adjusting to some new members.

Recently, due to a death in the family my mother and her fiancée have acquired a pretty awesome cat and two footballs. And by footballs I mean two yappy, needy, annoying fuzzballs that I want to kick.  A lot. But I'm not allowed to because people frown on animal abuse.

Which is the ironic part. I like animals. It's my thing. I've given up food groups to protect them and such. I carried home a raccoon once to try and save it from imminent death after being hit by a car. But these dogs just make me want to enact Darwin's law.

Maybe I should explain why they're so annoying.  One of dogs is a pomeranian. He is about ten years old and waddles around my ankles, alternatively yapping for attention and doing these wheezy little sighs when I glare. My mum charmingly calls him Poo-Bear. This one I tolerate.

The other, who is never far behind Poo-Bear, is Sasha.

Sasha is the most neediest little rat-thing that has ever been dared to be called a dog. I've been told it's a Bichon Frizee; that was more believable before they shaved it. Previously she looked like a annoying piece of lint that been incubated under my bed, now she looks like a variety of shaved unpleasant looking animals. Recently I think I've narrowed it down to goat, rat, cat and ugly.

Additionally, Sasha, is not old and slow like Poo-Bear, and thus does not evoke any form of pity or tolerance from me, only pure malicious spite. She wines, she yelps, she needs to be let out to use the bathroom every two minutes, and she steals the cat's food. And I'm not allowed to kill her.

The cat is pretty awesome though.