Bubbles.

Oh my poor Kendra!

I also have one tragic story concerning one mutt, named Twilight. He had one blue eye and one brown eye which was more than enough to convince my five year old mind that he was from the Twilight Zone. It's funny that I refer to Twilight as a "he," because I am not actually sure of the dog's sexual preference...[err--yeah, I just wanted to try that out, but didn't work and I'm not going to backspace]. Anyways, Twilight, the dog named after the television show, that my father apparently thought was appropriate for me to watch at such a young age, was the only dog I ever had. And I think I only had him for a grand total of a week. No, technically, I only had him for a day. Because the day after I got him, my parents decided to go to Manila for some family fun. We left the fate of poor Twilight into the capable hands of my grandfather, whom I barely knew. You probably can see where this is going. If you guessed that my grandfather FORGOT that he had to feed Twilight, then you win. My parents and I arrived at the scene, a week or so later (it might've been longer), with my grandfather standing over Twilight's lifeless body, scratching his head. My mom immediately escorted me back to the taxi just as the realization of what happened slapped me in the face with a harsh sense of reality.

Granted, I only had Twilight for a day. How much repressed feelings of anger and resentment could I possibly have? All I know is that I do not like dogs, either. Maybe it's mostly the way that they smell and the way that they slobber that impedes any sort of emotional attachment to the canines. Gross. Especially when people talk to them like, or dresses them, like they're children.