Just a little bit longer, he thought, wincing during the turn. One more time down and back and it will be over. It was hot inside the suit, even after shedding the top hat. Waggles the lovable dog kicked into the air, balancing on his left foot. He could feel the tendons straining, gasping for rest. I swear to fucking Christ, Waggles thought.

It was the second time in just one day. Jerry had come over, so the suit had come out. Time to impress. Time to perform. She wants him, so Waggles must dance. And dance. And dance. The time crawls slowly, and the pressure rises exponentially with every passing second. This must be what postal workers feel like.

They were talking back and forth. Yes, he certainly is cute. Look at him dance, it’s remarkable. What an adorable costume. Could you dress him up like a clown? That’s the last straw.

Waggles was ready for action. The suppressed rage of generations of domestication was rising up inside him, and the primordial instincts of his ancestors began to take over. First I’ll rip out his throat with my teeth, he mused. Then, I’ll make him watch while I claw her eyes out. Waggles made one last turn and continued back across the cheap wood floor. Get a carpet, bitch. It was time to strike. He dropped to all fours, and his muscles tightened. His lips pulled back over his teeth, and his fur bristled with fury. It would be a bloodbath. They would speak for years in hushed tones of the great feats of Waggles the Destroyer.

“Alright Waggles, that’s enough. Good boy.” She tossed Waggles a treat. It’s BACON! Waggles scurried to another room to devour his earnings. The slaughter was forgotten, and all was well once again. The banana would be waiting in the closet for another day.