Last night was Stewie’s first puppy class, sans Stewie. The instructor is a big old queen. We were taught how to respond to our puppies and shit like that. I can’t see Jim doing any of these things because he’s ultra WASPy. If he has to use hand gestures I’m afraid he’ll have a seizure. There were two gay couples in the class. One set trendy guys with a poodle and the others were bearish guys with a lab. It was very cliché. The poodles owners have two poodles and they have these ridiculous French names that I can’t remember. One of them sounds like “Mildew.” There was one woman in there that has a pit mix and she kept saying, “I can’t get Bear to come. I say, 'come Bear. Bear come. Come Bear. Bear come." I laugh "Have you tried stimulating her clit?" There’s another woman in there that has a poodle that doesn’t listen to her—she said, “I don’t know if I have the worse dog in there world or if I’m the worse owner. My dog doesn’t listen. And she bites. And she draws blood. And she tears everything up. And she doesn’t know her name. And she’s an alcoholic. She’ll find any bottle of alcohol in the house and break it and then drink the contents. And she took a chunk out of my ear. But she doesn’t bite anyone else, only me.” “Hello Victim.” There are these treat bags that we can use, that are like modified fanny packs. I’m tempted to get one and wear it into work and when ever someone does something good I’ll toss them some cut up hot dog.