I am not doing well. I am not doing well at all.
I thought that opening and imbibing a carton of cheap wine would help
well, it did not.
I can still smell the smell of Toby, and I can still see the places where he liked to rest. And I can still see where he chose to lie for his final moments.
And the unlovable mutts are totally ignorant of the demise of Toby.
Blast them.
I want them gone.