The Daily Bailey

Ever notice how when you spend a lot of time with someone, you start to do similar things? Like when girls hang out a lot and they start to get their periods at the same time. Not that I’d know anything at all about that. Just because I (forcibly) had my balls cut off does not make me a chick. I am a man. THE man. Mr. Man, as SHE’s apparently taken to calling me lately, along with a smattering of other completely inane and degrading names that I will only answer to if the words “want to eat?” come after. We are not married. You do not get to call me by stupid lovey dovey names and completely emasculate me (that’s pretty much been taken care of already). I know you think I’m cute and all, and I am slightly in touch with my feminine side (see above mentioned lack of balls that I clearly do not have a complex about), but I refuse to be talked to like I am an adorable ball of (the softest) fur. It’s through no fault of my own that I’ve been saddled with these sad puppy dog eyes that make you think I’m all deep and junk. I am actually quite shallow and rugged dammit. I’d go hunting and hiking and come back covered in mud with dead things in tow... If I was allowed outside. So I’m putting my paw down. This shit stops now. Stop calling me Bailey Bails. And Boo or Booter, Booter Scoot, Scooter McBoo, Scoo, Mr. Scoo, or Bestest Buddy. My name is Bailey. And if you say it with a little growl in your voice, that is the due I deserve. Oh and next time you’re out, can you get me one of those fancy sleep masks (preferably a frilly one that says “frisky”), because the light is really bothering my sensitive eyes. You can get yourself one too, since you clearly do everything I do...