Recently I announced a sort of a contest here on The Double Thumb. Whoever became the 100th follower would receive an ungodly amount of croissants. Well I am pleased to announce the winner of that competition: Alexil Fajardo! Congratulations!
Unfortunately, I don’t believe that the croissants are in any sort of presentable condition anymore. That announcement was several weeks ago, you see, and I don’t exactly advertise this site anywhere, so it took a while for that 100th follower to stumble her way on in here. Thus, the croissants have become slightly, shall we say, uncooperative.
Now some of you, if you read that last post, might be wondering about my dog. Susan, my labrador/beagle mix (labradeagle), was trapped on the other side of my house when it was filled with enough croissants to placate every tourist in Paris for a month. I didn’t see her for nearly three weeks. I heard barking and chomping sounds though, so I always maintained hope.
Eventually, the croissants began to stale and harden. They sat stacked floor to ceiling, melding together like brick and mortar. It got to the point where I could no longer shove them aside or wade through them, so immovable were the formerly light and flaky pastries. I had to re-think my approach if I wanted to make this house livable again.
I took a pickaxe to the great wall of croissants. They chipped apart like concrete, but soon enough I began to make progress. I tunneled through the croissants at a steady pace, encountering the occasional frustrating obstacle such as the kitchen counter and my sofa. But I persevered, encouraged by the occasional bark way on the other side.
“I’m coming Susan!” I shouted.
I erected numerous wooden support beams behind me and burned through countless headlamp batteries, but finally, I broke through, uncovering Susan like she was a Chilean miner. She was alive, thank God, but there was just one problem – she was morbidly obese. The poor thing had eaten through a living room’s worth of croissants, and her belly, distended like a blimp, showed the aftermath. She whimpered at me and kicked the inch-long leg nubs that stuck out of her gut. I rolled her back through the croissant caverns and rushed her to a hospital as quick as I could.
“I’m afraid she’s 85% bread,” said the veterinarian.
I pleaded with him. “Isn’t there anything you can do?”
“Well, there is an experimental I’ve always wanted to try out. But it’s far too risky.”
“Please!” I said. “Do anything you can to save her!”
He stroked his chin so much it was almost obscene. “The procedure, you see, is not unlike that of making beer. We inject yeast and hops into her bloodstream. Eventually, the fermentation will turn all the bread into alcohol, and her body will slowly process it over time. She will be very disoriented for a long while, but eventually she will be able to walk again.”
We stared at each other for a while. Then I gave a curt nod and said, “Start the procedure.”
So now I have a perpetually drunk dog dragging around three feet of excess skin everywhere she goes. We get some weird looks at the dog park.
Anyway, congratulations Alexil. Sorry about not being able to get you those croissants. Instead, I made you a special badge that you can print out and wear and/or frame.
Here is your special badge of honor. Please, nobody but Alexil print this out. This is just for her.
Thanks for reading!