If you locked me in a dog crate and told me that the only way out was to “escape,” I’m pretty sure I’d just have to live inside that dog crate forever. Oops. That dog crate is my house now. Because I am what the French call les incompetents—I can’t escape from shit, even though I have opposable thumbs and a giant brain. (Also, hip dysplasia.)
But these dogs are just like, oh, what? You thought I gave a dong about “fences” and “bars” and “crates” and “baby gates” and “physics”? Well, BOI-OI-OI-OINGGG BITCHEZ. FREE. FREEDOM. DOG FREEDOM. TTYL.
