He's got no balls. That's right. Even before my boy could kiss his first girlfriend between the fence posts, his manhood is gone. I did this. I'm the ball stealer.
Kao, my boy, Mummy is sorry. I didn't mean to do it but I had to. You were humping Bella, and at 15, she's not as understanding as she used to be. I don't think she'd ever be THAT understanding, but when you sneak up behind her and try to mount her, she will tend to freak out. If she had claws, you'd be blind 50 times over. You're just not her type. It's not you, it's her. Now, if you were a big bowl of milk with a side of tuna, then maybe you two could talk. But you didn't have any small talk, no foreplay and for that she can't forgive you. And, as much as I love you, I do not love seeing your lipstick dick every morning, even though some men may be more than a little jealous.
I'm also sorry that you haven't been allowed to clean yourself. I know this is your third favourite thing to do, the first being to chase after frisbees. The second has to do with balls, but not yours - tennis balls. No more licky-licky, Boyo. It's icky, icky, especially when you insist on kissing me right afterwards.
Now that that is out of the way, I will tell you bloggers that Kao is recovering from his ball buster surgery. He went under the knife at about 11 a.m. on Tuesday morning. Since then, however, we've been dealing in puke. Kao had a reaction to the anesthetic. He also had a reaction to a pair of my underwear, which he, unbeknown to us, had unearthed from my laundry basket. Yes, mine. Not the man's. Mine. We discovered it today, after a $90 vet visit, special "gastro-friendly" food and two different medications, only to discover the true reason for Kao's tummy distress. He has an aversion to lace. Sure, it must taste good going down but it's a whole other story coming out.
I'm just thankful it did come out. Picking through puke to rescue my gotchees was not my ideal way to spend my lunch hour, but the alternative is just something I can't fathom. And no, I did not eat afterwards. I couldn't. I was grossed out. But, it showed me that I have enough balls of my own to investigate a whole load of vomit to diagnose the issue and dispose of the culprit. I sure as hell wasn't going to wash them so they would see another wear. My new rule: puppies don't eat underwear and Scribe does not wear underwear that puppies eat.