The Dog and Me in Hell

So, everyone who comes to visit us eventually ends up bitching about how long Mrs. Wigglebottom’s nails are.

It’s true. They are long enough to make her sound like maracas as she runs across the kitchen floor. But, as god as my witness, I am never cutting her nails again (with two exceptions).

Here are the reasons:

1. She doesn’t like it.
2. I don’t like it.
3. I’m never sure how short to cut them.


4. Dear God, the blood!!!!! There’s always one nail that bleeds like a fucking oil gusher no matter how little actual nail material you cut off. You could take a sliver so thin the vet would need a microscope to see it, so thin that physicists would come to examine the particles making up the atoms that make up the cells that would all be visible, and that nail would bleed like crazy. And it’s not like it’s the same nail every time so that you could just say “Well, won’t cut the right front pinky nail.”

Here are the things that were blood-splattered:

1. The Butcher’s pants.
2. Most of the dog.
3. The new couch of sleepiness
4. The carpet
5. Me.
6. Various tissues I used to stop the bleeding
7. The cat who had to come over to see what was going on.
8. The kitchen floor

Here are the two exceptions:

Her thumbnails. I don’t want them to curl around and stab her in the paw.

But the other eight I’m done with.