You are sitting in your house, its early morning, you just finished breakfast and you are thinking about a nap.
One of your room mates suggests you go for a ride.
You don’t really want to go, but what the hell, you didn’t have any plans for this morning other than hanging out, eating and chasing some stray pussy.
You arrive at some generic looking doctors office and go in.
You are not really sure why you are there as they shuttle you thru to a back room.
The shot they give you, they never really explain what it is.
You fall asleep.
And when you wake up, THEY CUT YOUR BALLS OFF!
Think that can’t happen to you?
Happens to thousands yearly.
Happened to my parents dog this morning.
Poor Rocky, your days of staring at some hot bitch thru the fence are over, my man.
And why do this to him? What crime did he commit?
Snuck out of the house to sniff some lace.
Why that dirty bastard!
Why stop at his balls, why not slit his throat, for God’s sake!
Justice seems a little overly dramatic these days.
Karma on steroids, if you will.
Moment of silence for Rocky’s balls. (My Blog, my rules)
Back to the practice of removing the ability to breed by surgery.
I had it done myself.
My vasectomy was something I thought about quite a bit before doing.
Nervous as hell.
Greatest thing I ever did.
I have two kids, and I look at it like a hunter in season.
Bagged my limit, I am done.
And the really weird part is, there were several men who were shocked and confused why I would ever do such a thing.
And all of them did the same thing within 6 months after I did.
Now, a vasectomy is nowhere near as bad as what happened to poor little Rocky.
I just had a snip, they castrated the little shitsu.
Rough trade, for an animal that we claim to love.
Could you imagine the procedure we would come up with if we didn’t like dogs?
Thank God they are no longer as big and vicious as their wolf ancestors.
I can’t imagine how the first dog to have this done felt.
“What the hell did I ever do to you?”
Rocky’s de-balling only took a few minutes of surgery and an hour of recovery, then we took our dazed little dog home.
He has one of those ridiculous plastic cones on his head, to keep him from chewing his stitches.
And even in his groggy, drugged little head, he knows that we did something evil to him.
And he won’t quit staring at me.