Ever since she fired me, I've been moping around my apartment making barking sounds. I'm not crazy. I just need some human interaction and the barking makes the neighbors
yell «shut that damn thing up!» Then I can go over there with a bottle of Scotch and apologize for Rusty, my imaginary Akita. The only downside is that by the time Lady, my girlfriend, gets home, I'm too drunk to talk to her, much less make love. You've never pictured me as an organism that has sex, have you?
