The Boxhound drank my tea.
Drank. My. Tea.
She put her paws up on the table, stuck her snout into my mug, and started lapping it up.
She ought not to have done this.
Mind you, she didn’t drink ALL of it…but in a way, that’s even worse, because I had to pour the remnants down the drain. (I certainly wasn’t going to drink anything touched by the same mouth the Boxhound uses to sample dead animals and feces, the same tongue she uses to clean her vulva.)
So we had a fight — or, rather, I should say, I completely lost my $#!+ while she simply sat there, looking mildly perplexed by my demented shrieking.
As she so often does.