I was just chatting with my friend Robin and I told her a story that I thought, “I had better blog this,” about. WhyI am a heartless pig will become quite obvious in a moment. You see, I was telling her about how we never had a pet dog growing up. I was telling her how not having a pet dog while growing up had allowed me to become quite callused. I had been involved with the death of numberless fish, some birds and I don’t know about how many other critters that made their way through the Peterman household. I had told Robin about how I was a heartless pig because though I had killed lots of animals [thank the Lord for Grace. I really mean that, if I was Hindu I would probably now be suicidal] when I went over to a friend’s house his family was in tears because they had just had their family dog put down.

I thought their crying was rather wimpy. I am scum for this. Really.

Does that not make me a callus, heartless, pig? To quote John Cleese, “Well, that’s the sort of blinkered, Philistine pig-ignorance I expect from you non-creative garbage.”