Can't you see the fan that I have assembled for you? The location, tilt and strength of this fan were all carefully selected with your preference/well-being in mind. It is hotter than a nude nun jell-o wrestling contest, I know my dearest dogs. This fan contraption (you may recall that it was lovingly and laboriously presented by this humble two-legger) is your ticket to comfort and a sweet nap. Having said that- I hope that I am not prying when I ask....
Why in the FLYING FUCK do you both repeatedly lay down just out of reach of the soothing breeze? The fruits of this device will NEVER... not in a MILLION effing years... never EVER reach you even when it rotates! I move the damn thing time and time again, (including the towels carefully rolled and placed underneath the contraption causing a precarious tilt for your cooling pleasure) which is silly in hindsight but this is why: you both stare at me, buggy eyes desperately rolling, and you pant.
You both pant with such ferocity that your innards risk becoming outers. The gale-force exhalations create swirling clouds of shedded fur which dash across the floor and promptly cluster together in the farthest corner available. I would like to stare at the pair of you whenever I confuse your breath get with global constrion of the Earth's atmosphere, however looking in your general direction during this affair results in snap dried eyeballs and sulky remorse.
The point to all of this, you canine dears, is simply to tell you that I know it is hot. It is not my fault, I cannot make it stop, and I hate it too. It is hot and I am sorry for the summer in general, but also for the cyclops-eyed, cone-footed, purring tower of evil that rudely derails the scheduled airflow around your bodies which seems to be stalking you. So... I am sorry for all of that stuff.
Much love and shedding,
Foffdaughter
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