In little white piles, it lay like fluffy snow, covering my back yard. My first thought? Confusion. I hadn't been hand-making pillows on the deck lately, so why did my grass look as though someone had stuffed a Build A Bear with a pipe bomb and run off? I squinted through my kitchen blinds, and after a couple second's worth of scanning, I spotted it, the sad, now muted corpse of one of my daughter's greatest friends. Violet the talking, stuffed dog, had been kidnapped and brutally killed right under our noses. Because of my lack of vigilance, yet another stuffed comrade has died at the hands of Flea. Here are my words of parting.
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