Betrayed by my own flesh and fur.

I like to think of Ozzie as my own dog. Sure, he lives, breathes and gets fed at mom and dad's house, but he loves me. I love him. We're in love. And actually, now that I re-read what I just wrote, let's go ahead and shift all of those loving verbs into the past tense.

That Keeshond and I are not on speaking terms.

Before you get all, "Aw. But he's just a doggy! Look how cute!" on me, let me tell you this: he bit me. Hard. Square on the pinky.

And I bled! All over my sweater! And my new jeans! A lot! OMG! Etc., etc. The puncture wound looks insignificant, but I'm a bleeder.

Cut me and I bleed, people. Bleed.

And so he did. And it hurt like a sonofagun. This was no playful bite, this was full-on Kujo-style, fangs bared, and all. I'm telling you, the lights went out in the world when he bit me. Angels stopped singing. THE WORLD STOPPED ROTATING.

Dramatic, I know.

How and why it actually happened are just details, because I don't care how much he annoyed me, I'd never bite him.

If I was busy eating my favorite treat (Nerds, of course), and he was incessantly batting at my face, laughing, I'd never make him bleed.

If he tried to take away my Nerds, over and over, while laughing, still, I would restrain myself.

All right, so I may or may not have been stealing his rawhide chew toy. While he was trying to eat it. Over and over. And that may or may not have pissed him off, but still.

That hurt.

So he and I are no longer friends. At least until the gaping pinky wound heals.