Look at this fucking new dog. He’s a fucking beagle-pit mix and his name is Waylon. He won’t shut the fuck up and he thinks the guest room is his personal fucking bathroom but he is so fucking cute. Look at my dog’s fucking puppy dog eyes. Just fucking look.
Look at my fucking dog after a day at the fucking dog park. He makes so many fucking friends at the dog park.
Look at my fucking dog cleaning the peanut butter jar like a fucking fiend. He’s on a fucking protein kick.
Look at my fucking dog wrestling with Eddie at the fucking bar. Spring is finally fucking here.
Look at my fucking dog losing at giant fucking jenga. Never again.
Look at my fucking dog celebrating New Year’s Eve like a fucking boss. He loves that fucking hat, picked it out himself.
Look at my fucking dog after his bath, looking like a fucking gentleman. He’s such a handsome fucking devil. You should feel his fucking fur. So fucking soft and silky, like the downy locks of newborn fucking baby.
Look at my fucking dog in the 5th fucking hour of the 9-hour road trip home. He’s so fucking tired of the car, but even more fucking tired of the unchanging nothingness of a landscape that is southern Illinois. As we pass through Effingham, we think that fucking song is right: if there’s a god, he is laughing at you and your football team.
Look at my fucking dog sharing his fucking dinner with Uncle Hank. Hank thinks all the fucking food belongs to him. Tiny fucking dog, big fucking ego.