Trixie missed the days when Todd was the one taking Bessie for a walk. Now she had to do everything herself. “What a douche”, she whispered to herself.
(I have no idea where this came from, help?)
Todd had grown increasingly vain over the past year, spending endless hours prepping in front of the old mirror in their bedroom. Trixie reckoned he’d become a bit of a dandy. She’d returned one afternoon from the pâtisserie to find him leafing idly through a gentlemen’s fashion catalog. (The pages displaying monocles had been dog-eared.)
Trixie had reached a point where she couldn’t stand his constant preening any longer. The catalyst for the final show down had been walking in on Todd as he built a voodoo doll of himself out of furballs and Blu-Tac scrounged from the walls. He’d fashioned an ascot out of one of her handkerchiefs.