Don’t eat the brownies.

Don’t eat the brownies.

Don't eat the yellow snow.

But it was too late. I tried to accept that Sven actually preferred microfiber to cotton sheets, but the day he brought two yappy little dogs home, I went into a fugue state and mu

tinied. "These dogs are too small!" I bellowed. "We live on a farm! How is a Chihuahua going to herd sheep?" Sven looked taken aback. "Dey are so cute, da?" He offered me a puppy.

Really, "Sven"? I answered incredulously. "What do you expect me to do with that? My cat would smack the shiver right out of this insect before it could bark, "Uff Da."

Sven looked concerned, face twisted. "Look, I wouldn't have agreed to any of this if I knew you were just going to try to feed the bug to your cat. Thats some twisted nonsense."

I rolled my eyes, "They can listen in on us or they can listen in to a cat's digestion. Honestly, only one of those is going to get us arrested." Sven snorted, but didn't argue.

They sat for a while, drinking the last of the gin and listening to the cat's attempts to digest the generic dry food it had consumed earlier. The city sat below them in darkness

. The luminescent number flipped on the digital clock. They glared at each other from across the couch. "Well, another damn Happy New Year, I guess."