Dog: What the FUCK is with all the boxes?
Me: I was waiting for the right time to tell you. We're moving.
Dog: "WE'RE" moving? I don't recall having much of a say in this.
Me: Well, I know. But I don't have a choice. I couldn't get a mortgage.
Dog: Because you're a complete loser. And an asshole. And you're fat with bad hair, and bad taste, in both clothing and home furnishings.
Me: You're a little mean. You haven't even heard about the place. It's got a fenced in backyard!
Dog: You are such a fucking idiot. There's nothing appealing to me about a fenced in backyard. How about no fence? How about you just give me a key and I'll come and go as I please?
Me: Because, and I don't want to be too repetitive, but you don't have opposable thumbs. You can't operate a key.
Dog: You know the worst part about that? I can't use my opposable thumbs to punch you in the neck for your subpar FICO score.
Me: You don't even know what a FICO score is.
Dog: You can't get a mortgage, and you're questioning MY knowledge of finances? You're lucky I don't know how to drive.
Me: And why is that?
Dog: Forget it. I just had a fantasy about driving you into my imaginary fiery cauldron of hate.
Me: Super. You're the best. Love you, doggie. And thanks for your support.
Dog: Eat me, tramp.