Help! Help! This is Dark Lord Cheeto. They also call me Sir Pees A Lot. And sometimes Nugget. I have slunk over to the keyboard to beg you for your assistance. Call the police. No, wait, the police like him. Oh God. I don’t know what to do. This cannot go on. They’ve all lost their minds.
I cannot unsee what just happened. I need to report a sexual assault. #metoo folks, #metoo. That idiot mange monster called Taz that Food Lady brought here just tried to rape Ned. The humping and grunting was awful, but the caterwauling when Ned beat the living crap out of him was worse. Fur went everywhere. Then the feathered snack food we’re not allowed to eat started screeching in her cage, and the doofus mutt knocked over a lamp while Ned smacked his snout over and over and over. It was a terrifying 75 seconds of chaos. I think I have PTSD. Yes, cats can too have PTSD.
Food Lady laughed so hard her eyes ran, and the small human snorted juice out of his nose. They still haven’t caught their breath. MY boy keeps calling that shedding blonde monster a sex offender and wants to put him on a registry. Perhaps this is how humans deal with these violent attacks. I am going to need therapy.
— Excerpt from the Diary of Taz, a Retired Military Service Dog
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