Lately, I’ve been really keen on adopting a dog. I mean, these stupid cats are good for nothing. Coleman shrieks until she’s fed, then sleeps it off for the rest of the day. Ble had lousy teeth, has grown so obsessive-compulsive that she’s licked so much fur off her belly that she appears to be wearing a midriff top, yet she applies none of that tongue bathing industriousness to the area of ass hygiene and maintenance. I decided the only way to remedy this is to adopt a dog and throw the cats in the garbage.

While Lisa has been obsessing over the details of our wedding, I’ve been putting my attention into more long-term investments: the field of puppy research. I think we have a winner:

french bulldog puppy

Sturdy, healthy-looking, googly eyes. All the makings of a fine companion.

I will name him “Soul Reaver.”

Now, to most people that might seem like an awfully long way to make a joke about naming my adorable imaginary puppy “Soul Reaver,” but if you knew how much that name has been making me laugh, I think you’d understand.

Is it too late to change my cats’ names to “Rygar” and “Power Fist”?

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