A stuffed toy dog, my dog fucked it.
I'd had this stuffed toy dog since I before I could crawl. In my time I'd probably drooled on it, puked on it, pissed on it, spilt food all over, the usual for a favourite stuffed toy. Every time it went into the wash and came out good as new.

Fast forward many years and I'm having a clear out. The toy[1] is put on the floor while I hunt for something else. I turn back a few seconds later to see Pointless[2] has mounted it and is shagging away for all he is worth.

Protests that he was literally raping my childhood fell on deaf dog-ears until the inevitable happened.

Regardless of the spills and stains that the toy has suffered and been cleansed from before, I could not find it in me to keep or clean the dog-spunk covered toy.

Twenty-odd years of history dumped in the bin because of thirty seconds of animal passion.

Bloody Pointless.

[1] Yeah, I'd kept it until well into my 20s. It just got shoved to the back of the wardrobe.

[2] My dog is called Pointless because he is in truth a soppy pointless animal.
( speedyballbangpots, Thu 14 Aug 2008, 17:18, 1 reply)