I told myself a half dozen times after various pets died that I'd never get another. Then some ugly stray would wander over, or some ratty starving thing would limp into view, or, or, or. I have rarely carried a gun so shooting the damned things was out. So, OK, ONE meal and hit the road. OK, you can stay the night, but tomorrow you go to the SPCA. OK, I don't have time to get you there just now, BUT, don't think you're staying for long. Then someone says, "Hey, man, that dog is UGly." (Yeah, but you say that again and he'll chomp yer parts for ya.) Then a few weeks have passed and he's learned not to piss on the floor, fetch a sock, be nice to folks. Then the fu#kin' thing is there seven years later and ya wonder how you ever lived without him. He's the dog that was seen humping a fire hydrant a few blocks away, and you find out that he's knocked up someone's pedigree poodle and the owners are pissed off, and he shows up after being 'out' for two days--no doubt knocking up someone ELSE'S pedigree poodle (or fire hydrant)--and he smells like he's been rolling in dead fish, and lo, he HAS been rolling in dead fish. He knows what the word 'bath' means, and catching him is a chore and a half. The same damned dog that doesn't understand 'sit', 'come' (in the sense of over here. He obviously knew what it meant when it involved pedigree poodles fer krissake) or 'stay' has a handle on soap, bath, tub. Sheesh. Anyway, never again. Never. Absolutely NEVer. Period. And that's final. I am NOT kidding.