Pet Stories
When one of my cats was younger and a lot fatter, he came bowling in from the garden with an almighty crash. Looking slightly stunned, he'd arrived into the kitchen having ripped the cat flap from the door and was still wearing it as a cat-tutu. Did I mention he was quite fat?
In honour of Jake, a well loved cat, who died on Wednesday, tell us your pet stories and cheer us up.
( , Fri 8 Jun 2007, 9:15)
When one of my cats was younger and a lot fatter, he came bowling in from the garden with an almighty crash. Looking slightly stunned, he'd arrived into the kitchen having ripped the cat flap from the door and was still wearing it as a cat-tutu. Did I mention he was quite fat?
In honour of Jake, a well loved cat, who died on Wednesday, tell us your pet stories and cheer us up.
( , Fri 8 Jun 2007, 9:15)
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My former boss,
known as The Whelk, had a rather unusual bulldog. Not only did he frequently lean back and masturbate whilst looking you unnervingly in the eye despite having been neutered, but was also rather large, some ten stone, having once been owned by and confiscated from a bodybuilder who had fed him steroids.
The Whelk ran a pub, and I worked in it as well as my brother and one of his mates, Wooden Boy. As anyone who has worked in the licensed trade probably knows, after-work parties in the dark are not unheard of, and it was at these gatherings that Wooden Boy would demonstrate his great skill, his party piece, namely throwing his weedy nine-stone frame onto the floor in a convincing manner, and lying perfectly still, and thus resembling a marionette with its strings cut.
One night, Wooden Boy had overdone it. He fell down for the third or fourth time, and we weren't impressed. We, seriously, tutted.
Wooden Boy lay still, his eyes screwed up shut tight. Our voices expressing our heartfelt desire that he should get the hell up.
A scuffling noise, getting nearer. The dog walking in his general direction. A wet nose snuffled around his neck. Ha ha, someone, at least was convinced.
THUD!
The dog's forepaws arrived on either side of his head as it straddled him, two legs on either side. He fidgetted a little. The dog was bigger than him. He couldn't move.
The dog began panting. Something hard began to push on the seat of his trousers. Like touching cloth backwards. Thud, thud, thud thud....
Oh God.
He opened his eyes to find himself face-to-face with a lust-crazed bulldog, salvating, thrusting, only a membrane of fabric keeping his bum virginity safe from the hole hungry beast.
"OH MY GOD GUYS, THE DOG'S TRYING TO F*CK ME!"
At this point he realised we were all watching. And laughing. Like drains. At him. Being boned by a hound.
Did we get the dog off? Nah, he got down himself, after he'd cum.
And the moral of this story is that you should always look to see if a dog's got b*ll*cks before deliberately falling on the floor before a bunch of gits.
( , Mon 11 Jun 2007, 0:59, Reply)
known as The Whelk, had a rather unusual bulldog. Not only did he frequently lean back and masturbate whilst looking you unnervingly in the eye despite having been neutered, but was also rather large, some ten stone, having once been owned by and confiscated from a bodybuilder who had fed him steroids.
The Whelk ran a pub, and I worked in it as well as my brother and one of his mates, Wooden Boy. As anyone who has worked in the licensed trade probably knows, after-work parties in the dark are not unheard of, and it was at these gatherings that Wooden Boy would demonstrate his great skill, his party piece, namely throwing his weedy nine-stone frame onto the floor in a convincing manner, and lying perfectly still, and thus resembling a marionette with its strings cut.
One night, Wooden Boy had overdone it. He fell down for the third or fourth time, and we weren't impressed. We, seriously, tutted.
Wooden Boy lay still, his eyes screwed up shut tight. Our voices expressing our heartfelt desire that he should get the hell up.
A scuffling noise, getting nearer. The dog walking in his general direction. A wet nose snuffled around his neck. Ha ha, someone, at least was convinced.
THUD!
The dog's forepaws arrived on either side of his head as it straddled him, two legs on either side. He fidgetted a little. The dog was bigger than him. He couldn't move.
The dog began panting. Something hard began to push on the seat of his trousers. Like touching cloth backwards. Thud, thud, thud thud....
Oh God.
He opened his eyes to find himself face-to-face with a lust-crazed bulldog, salvating, thrusting, only a membrane of fabric keeping his bum virginity safe from the hole hungry beast.
"OH MY GOD GUYS, THE DOG'S TRYING TO F*CK ME!"
At this point he realised we were all watching. And laughing. Like drains. At him. Being boned by a hound.
Did we get the dog off? Nah, he got down himself, after he'd cum.
And the moral of this story is that you should always look to see if a dog's got b*ll*cks before deliberately falling on the floor before a bunch of gits.
( , Mon 11 Jun 2007, 0:59, Reply)
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