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There is NEVER a real discussion with him anyway. When he lost his dog after HIS dog killed my daughter's little Yorkie she had for 9 years, HE decided there would be no more dogs. I told him that was unfair since my daughter and I still wanted a pet. He said too bad, HE said no more pets and that's that. But I brought home a little doggie for my daughter anyway. She was so happy to have another little dog, she had done nothing but cry since Tiger had gotten killed. Dickie was furious!! He said "You didn't consult me!" But I knew "consulting" him just meant he would have the to say no. If he never wanted another dog, fine, but it wasn't fair or right for him to say we could never have another one. When he had got his great (the one that killed my daughter's dog, he didn't consult me or ask if it was ok, the same with another dog of his. He TOLD me we were getting these dogs. I was apprehensive because I had never been around big dogs, but he really didn't give me a choice, he just said "it'll be fine." Just like he didn't consult me when he started a business on the side, or he didn't consult me when he bought a new "toy", he just was so excited about getting stuff, I was happy for him. Consulting or discussing things with him is a term he used when he was mad at me for doing the same things he was guilty of without asking first. I NEVER yelled at him for not consulting me about anything, I didn't expect him to consult me. He even got mad at me for not "consulting" him first if I told my daughter she could have a friend spend the night or if I decided to take them to a movie. My whole life began to turn into a consultation with the devil (yes, my husband) while he did EVERYTHING he wanted. hot oid guy with tattoos# Posted by Devine on /07; PM in My Back Pages Captain White Socks and the surly taxidermist Captain White Socks ( ) entered our lives as a small, mostly-tiger kitten that Amity heard about from her camp-bus driver. Such was Cappy's charm that it smote us all at once, even as we gasped at the giant fleas crawling out of his ears and over his tummy. Quick veterinarian action intervened. Years passed, during which Cappy grew large and bold, treating our family with a courtly affection but expecting to be the (neutered) male in his interactions with any outsiders. He was lordly (not to say a bit -) and he well have been chasing a car when he met his end. I had imagined that he (like our other cat -) always stayed in our back yard but kept away from the street. It wasn't so. There was a slight drizzle falling from the sky when I was summoned by the doorbell, and a very contrite driver, to look at Cappy's now limp but still beautiful corpse, spangled with fog drops. To my dismay taxidermists turned me down flat when I asked about getting Cappy "preserved" so that he could lie curled up on some mantel or windowsill. My were baffled. We had been to Chincoteague and seen the body of "mounted" (they don't it "stuffed") for eternal memory. We had stayed in New Zealand with people whose parlors displayed even (now somewhat motheaten) dogs they had loved in their childhood. But even though we were by then in Princeton, NJ, so that I was able to pester taxidermists all the way from NYC to Philadelphia, nobody wanted to "mount" our old Cappy so that we could keep him. "We don't do pets," more than one surly old-timer told me. Meanwhile, in our freezer, Cappy lay curled up in a giant plastic bag surrounded by frozen peas and fudge-ripple ice cream., of course, had a truly unique suggestion: "don't say it's a pet. Tell them I shot it." Somehow, I hadn't the chutzpah to try his method. In the end, finally, I bought some beautiful cloth that was black and, like Cappy, to wrap him up in. We buried him in the back yard. Einstein's back yard, which was our back yard way back then. But if there's a resurrection, Einstein can't have him because we want Cappy back! black women sex
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