PISS BRULEE, ANYONE?
The dog has bad breath. And by bad I mean gruesome. For example, if you were to rate smells on a scale of one to ten, where one represented good, bacterial vaginosis would be one, and Daisy’s breath would be ten. “Any chance you can take Daisy to the vet?” I say to my husband. "Her breath is rank.“ The dog has heard us talking about her. She is wagging her tail. This is because she has no self-esteem. Zero. You could literally say anything: Let’s put Daisy on a one-way flight to Korea. OR: Daisy smells like she's been sampling Mike Pence's pump-action yoghurt rifle. OR: Daisy is a bigger twat than Michael Flatley. And she would STILL wag her tail. My husband takes her to the vet. “Could you take a look at her teeth?” he says to the veterinary nurse. “My wife thinks her breath smells.” “I can’t see anything”, says the nurse, taking a look. “Is your wife, maybe, being a bit neurotic?” I am a little peeved by this res