Eight more years...

Only eight more years to go. Eight more years. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Eight.

I am so tired of:

• the barking
• the whining
• getting pushed out of bed by a dog
• being unable to have sex in my own bed because there's a dog between the two of us
• the licking sounds (there's nothing in your crotch, dog!)
• the open wound on the leg
• the whining
• the hovering whenever I'm in the kitchen
• the staring while I'm sitting in the bathroom
• butt wipes on my brand spanking new rug
• being unable to head out of town on a whim because we have to find someone to take care of them
• imposing on friends to take care of them
• the whining
• the upturned trashcans
• the $400 a month dog food bills
• the emergency room runs
• the $300 a month veterinary bills
• finding dog hairs in my underwear
• finding dogs eating my underwear

I know Kris loves these dogs, but they are driving me insane. He's not home with these monsters 22 hours a day. Dog, shut the fuck up!