“dude i know youre a werewolf and all but seriously that freaking howl laughter you do is so fucking extra and i cant take it anymore”
“you being part dog has its perks, mostly for me because whenever i toss something away your eyes follow it and you perk up like you want to chase it but restrict yourself and its honestly the cutest fucking thing ive ever seen”
“honestly though i hate my pack so much, like theyre a bunch of assholes but i ran into you on a full moon run in the forest and idk u seem pretty cool. wanna go hunting or scare some people or some shit? i know this sick ass lake thats always really warm, i can show you”
“yes i understand im a big bad werewolf now but really i dont want to hurt those cute little rabbits and deer, cant we just wait until we transform back to eat? thats not how it works? well cant i just eat before i transform so i wont be hungry–im sorry im just new at this and im sorta trying to go vegetarian here–”
“babe you know i love you and i would give up my life for yours but i sWEAR TO GOD IF YOU GIVE ME ONE MORE DOG TOY FOR MY BIRTHDAY IM GONNA PUNCH YOU SQUARE IN THE FACE”
“look im not a supernatural fanatic or anything but i swear man every time this kid next to me gets frustrated they actually growl and it sounds just like some rabid steroid induced dog, and im not saying their a werewolf man but theyre totally a werewolf”
a werewolf getting personally offended when someone says they’re not a dog person
“as a werewolf i can personally talk to dogs and boyohboy does ur little pug have some tea to spill…"
“alternatively, i find you to be really superduper adorable and whenever i come over your little dog goes off on rants to me about the cute embarrassing stuff that you do when your home alone and honestly I wake up every day for these chats”
“when I saw you climbing out of the stream I was fishing in dirty, wet, and naked, I assumed you had just survived some kind of intense mob hit or something but really you had just detransformed from a werewolf after you were playing in the water trying to catch a fish, and ultimately failing. nice ass, by the way.”
I would like for you to tell stupid tourist stories? Your story-telling style is very engaging.
First of all, thank you very much!
Since flattery will get you pretty much anywhere, allow me to tell you The Tale Of Jar-Jar.
The First year my family moved to Colorado, my family decided to take the annual summer camping trip to Yellowstone, now that we were on the right side of the rockies for it. So we pile into the car with all my mom’s immortal camping gear from the 70′s (srsly, I still have the Colemann stove and cooler. They work perfect) and Cody,The Gentleman Shepherd.
Due to Wyoming looking mostly like the ugly parts of Mad Max, we got onto the wrong highway and arrived after dark. Cody waited patiently in the backseat rather than set up in the rain. Gentlemanly.
The next morning, Mom is doing something miraculous with the Colemann and there is a breakfast of pancakes, eggs and bacon. The sun is shining. The birds are singing. All is serene and beautiful.
Then the people in the next site pull up. They arrive in a Brand-spanking new Ford Pickup towing a trailer that looks like it was salvaged of a 50′s atomic test field. The Husband emerges first and…
I don’t like judging people based on appearance but Man, when a dude walks out of a pickup wearing a confederate flag hat, and half of a mullet one tends to make assumptions.
The eldest child came out next, a boy of about 12, with a rat-tail. Followed by his brother, a boy of about 10, with a rat-tail Followed by his brother, a boy of about 8, with a rat-tail. Followed by his brother, a boy of about 6, with a rat-tail. Followed by his brother, a boy of about 4, with a rat-tail.
The wife finally emerges, looking like death warmed over and carrying a boy of about two, with a rat-tail. It is unclear if she has poor posture or if she is pregnant again. The Boys capable of standing all immediately do so at the border of our site, staring covetously at my bacon.
Finally, with a loud plop and wheezing noise, comes thier dog, for a given value of dog. Pugs are not terribly healthy-looking creatures at the best of times, but this poor thing looked like the canine equivalent of a Hapsburg. One eye was so bulged as to be permanently wall-eyed, and his jaw jutted out in front of him at a distressingly kapakahi angle.
“C’mere Jar-Jar!” hollers the Husband.
“Good God.” muttered my father.
The adults proved over the course of the next hour to be loathsome creatures- Husband was constant’y screaming at the boys the “fuckin’ get me the thing, you little-” then getting mad when asked for clarification on ‘which thing?’. The Wife was a non-stop stream of complaint- the sun is too hot, the shade is too cold, the tent is too far, the birds are too loud, and everything is awful, I’m going to complain to the ranger. Eventually they got their camp set up, and Husband cracked his first beer of the day as we finished locking the bear box and leaving to hike. It was about 10 AM.
We return some hours later to a very animated discussion between Wife and the Camp Supervisor about “I have rights you know!” vs. “Ma’am, we are under an extreme fire danger warning, and Fireworks have been banned in the park for ages.” Jar-Jar, eager to avoid any outbursts, has scuttled under our bear box, wheezing in agitation. Cody, ever gallant, positions himself between Jar-Jar and his mistress, doing his best impression of a Real Shepherd Who Isn’t Scared of Mice and Snowflakes. Husband is unseen, but there are several beer cans in the fire grate.
That evening’s campfire, normally a time to listen to nocturnal wildlife and the Quiet noises of wild places, is instead a time to listen to drunken racist jokes, a sobbing toddler and Husband screeching “SAY AI WANNIT” whilst dangling scraps in front of jar-jar, until the dog stood on his legs and danced, garbling “Ai-Wa-War” in a voice that sounded less like a bark and more like late-stage emphysema, before collapsing on what looked like sore joints.
Late that night, my parents discuss packing up and looking for a site in Teton down the road over the sounds of half-assed drunken sex.
The boys, in spite of their parents, are well mannered, intelligent and engaging to talk to, and seem content to frolic in the woods around the site, examining rocks and plants and the occasional insect. Dad has a nice time telling them about the Yellowstone supervolcano whilst their parents have vanished to parts unknown. Jar-jar remains off-lead and un-collared the entire time, huffing and puffing as he tries to keep up. Still, five boys is perhaps too much attention for an elderly pug, and the too-hard petting and pulling of ears and tail and suchlike is tolerated with an exasperated whine and vacations under our bear-box.
The second night, Husband was furious about something, cursing up a storm and throwing things and generally having a tantrum. The eldest boy said something to him and he bore down on him, hand raised and screaming something about ‘useless pieces of shit.” -When they were interrupted by my mother stepping into their site, all four feet eleven inches of ill-contained fury, staring him down.
“I was wondering.” She said, eyes not moving from him. “If I could borrow some matches.” “Ours got wet.” Dad added, immediately behind her, less as support than restraint.
I remember how ghastly quiet the woods got for a moment there, watching the scene unfold from behind Cody, the only sounds the campfire and crickets.
“Uh, yeah. Matches.” The Wife muttered, and it was enough to get Husband to back down.
“You have lovely children.” Dad continued. “Very smart, very polite.” “You must be so blessed.” My mother adds, only slightly spitting the word.
My parents take the matches and talk a bit longer but I couldn’t hear. Husband gave up, flopping down in his chair, but not before giving Jar-Jar a kick.
The next morning, as my family was packing up to head down to Teton instead, The Eldest boy approached us, concerned.
“Sir?” he asked dad. “Have you seen jar-jar?”
We hadn’t actually, his gravely groveling notably absent that morning at breakfast. My sister and I went on a search with the boys through the camp, but to no avail. We did find Wife, complaining to the campground host that there were too many wild animals around. In the National Park. Saddened and trying to give the boys some hope that perhaps jar-Jar had not been eaten by the coyotes, we left.
On the way out the main gate, we ended up behind a Buick with Florida plates, driven by a couple well into their octogenarian period, at about seven miles per hour. As they stopped at the checkout gate, clearly asking for directions, a dog climbed up to sit in the back window. A fat, lop-sided, wall-eyed little Pug, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
And that’s the story of how Jar-jar escaped the Hell family to Florida.
‘That fucking dog. George, as he’s known, is very pretty and very cute, but he is not obedient. I’ve suffered urine, I’ve suffered anarchy and all manners of craziness with that bloody dog. They say don’t work with animals and children, and I’m sure children are tolerable, but don’t ever work with a pug.’ – Aberystwyth Tab (2015)
‘The adult dog… (sighs) George… was one dog. And then there were two little pugs, and I was very, very fond of the little pugs. They were lovely. Really sweet. But George is… George is hard work.’ – Apple’s Meet the Actor Event (2015)
‘I feel like if I say yes to shooting J.B, I’d lose you all immediately. Even if I am a secret hater of dogs, I’d still be like, “No! Of course not!” So, no, (sarcastically) I would never shoot a dog. Not even one as charming as George, who plays J.B. I am more of a cat man myself. Just because I don’t like dogs, doesn’t mean I could put a bullet in the head of one.’ – Kingsman: the Secret Service Post-Screening Q&A in San Francisco, CA (2015)
All I really want to know is what happened to Smoky, the black dog in 3x03. For 20 glorious seconds, he barked in excitement for Bree’s milestone, pranced his way through the bottom of my screen, then into my heart, and out of my life. Never to be heard from or seen again. When did they get Smoky? Did he die between Brianna’s 16th birthday and high school graduation? Was it just a nod to the pictures scene to come? There are so many gaps in Smoky’s life that I feel the show did not do justice (I know, he should get in line behind Claire). #JusticeForSmoky
Prompt: Y/N walks in, and Harry notices she’s wearing yellow again, this time it’s a yellow sweater with a pair of dark skinny jeans and brown ankle boots, her hair is pulled back into a pony tail with a white scrunchie with little smiling suns and he swears that he has to squint to look at her. “Oh! I know you-you’re the guy from the train,” Y/N beams, “Harry, right?” she sets down the tray of muffins.
“I didn’t tell you my name,” Harry snaps.
Y/N pouts, “well yeah, but I’m also not stupid,” she says.
“Are you joining us today Harry?” the man asked, “I’m Seth, I run the group.”
“Why else would I fucking be here,” Harry grumbled.
Y/N grabs a muffin, ignoring Harry’s sour attitude, “here, they’re made with love,” she smiled, holding out the blueberry muffin.
“Fuck off,” Harry says. He watches as her smile fades and the glint in her eyes seems to disappear, for a split second Harry feels like a dick, but then he realizes he doesn’t care and Y/N should just shove the muffin up her ass.
Drinking seemed pointless and as did life. He found himself
wishing he could be a part of crowds, go out and enjoy life, but he couldn’t.
Every time he did force himself to go out he was counting down the seconds till
he could be back in his own space. He felt as if her were drowning, as if he
were sinking and everyone just happened to swim right by him. He felt like he
was screaming for help, for someone, for anyone to just hold him, to just lay
with him, but no one listened.
He had disconnected from everyone completely, shutting off
his phone, not checking his emails, or even going on social media. The only
time he left his house where for the meetings, anytime Seth could fit him in,
and train rides. Each and every time he hoped Y/N would be there, but after
three meetings he had given up.
Harry hadn’t showered in three days and he looked like it.
He wondered if he smelled but he really didn’t care. He had no one to impress
and at this point anything he did felt like a ten-mile race. He almost didn’t
show up for group therapy because that meant getting out of bed and facing the
reality that is life. The world that tells him what he’s feeling is all in his
head and he needs to get over it and write more music. The world that tells him
it’s okay to have a fever or break his leg, but the moment he feels alone and
numb he needs to get over it. The world that wants Harry Styles but not Harry Styles.