Irish Yet Unlucky

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Big Pupi isn't pleased:

You may have noticed that I have been blessed with devilishly handsome freckles. For this reason, mom calls me her "Irish Son" (making my pierogie-loving brother her "Polish Son"). Despite my clover-bearing heritage and the fact that I happen to look smashing in green, St. Patrick's Day is not a lucky one for me. Why, you might ask?

St. Paddy's makes my weeble angry.

The first time I found myself being horrendously violated by my doctor for an infection of my manliness was on this same Irish holiday one year ago. And this year, on the day us Irish folk should be drinking from green water bowls and getting kisses, I was back at the vet with another bout of Angry Weeble-itis.

If you remember, I have a "condition" which makes my manhood a little exaggerated for a beast of my proportions. When you add this to my amazing flexibility (I can hike a hinder up perpendicular to the ground when marking my territory), it makes for some weeble-flopping-on-stuff action. I pick up some nice bacteria doing this, and it always hits as soon as the weather warms up - which is March in my neck of the woods. Or city.

The doctor had to do the most horrible of horrible things to me at the Place of Tile and Steel. She actually took a little red rubber piece of tubing and SHOVED IT where I'm pretty certain it was NOT supposed to go, and then flushed sterile saline all over my privacy and I'm pretty sure I never ever ever want that to happen again. Humans are totally insane and I truly think they enjoy a little cocker spaniel torture every once in a while.

If I could have blushed through my freckles I would have. And to add insult to infection, I overheard my mom saying that I was a "neutered" male. What? No way. After a few bark park discussions on what "neutered" actually means, I assured my people that I, in fact, knew where my balls where and upon our return home from the doctor I brought one out to show my mom.
See? I think this qualifies me as "in tact," although I really don't like labels.

I spent the remainder of the evening gripping my ball as tightly as possible so as to ease any concerns about the degree of my masculinity. Or maybe it was just to reassure myself. I also made certain to check on my manhood often, as I was very concerned that I would try to run away after its day of horrors.
Thanks to an antibiotic, my weeble is no longer angry and seems to be doing quite well. But now mom holds me back when I mark my territory so that my manliness doesn't come in contact with anything anymore. This really screws with my aim, and it creates a problem of grand proportions since I like to lift my leg no less than a 1,000 times on every walk. I call it "going shopping," and a beast can't make any purchases if he can't hit his mark.

But... I guess all's well that ends well, and at least I've got my stuffy balls.
Your in-tact friend,

Big Pupi