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Georgia
Georgia died of a tiny heart explosion on February 23 after chasing a soccer ball in circles for 36 hours without stopping. She was sweet, cute, arrogant, loud, and had a pig ass. 

Georgia was born on April 8, 2007, the only daughter of Milkwagon Trixie. She resided in a laundry basket on a porch in Bath, Indiana for her entire life and was best known for shrieking incessantly while humans ate. She hated wearing vests, and devoted her life to dangling in mid-air from dishtowels and violently trembling while staring at walls. She is preceded in death by countless moles and sparrows, who died by her crooked front paw.

A Jack Russell Terrier bred purely for combat, she was an active member of a bird murdering society. She also enjoyed ruthlessly slaughtering moles, and shredding rubber cheeseburgers into hundreds of unidentifiable pieces.

She will always be remembered for displaying an irrational sense of entitlement and claiming everything and everyone as her own personal property.

Memorial contributions can be made in the form of crumbled sausage, piles of dead birds, or cold hot dogs cut into small discs.
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GEORGIA TRIBUTE! 01/18/2010
 
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Doggehs. 11/09/2009
 
My mom and I took the dogs for a walk in the park on Sunday. What I thought would be literally nothing more than a “walk in the park” turned out to be a lesson in personal responsibility, not conforming to societal norms, and sticking it to the man. Our two dogs, pictured below are Otto (pictured at left) and Georgia (pictured at right). Never mind the fact that one of my dogs may or may not be a musk ox and that his moniker is just my last name. Not a big deal. What you need to know is that he can’t speak a lick of English, but he can say a lot. We were 25 feet from the car when Georgia decided it was time for a bowel transaction. She pinned her ears back and did her business, but we were about 100 yards from the nearest “Dogi-Pot” station, which holds sanitary baggies made strictly for picking up dog shit. I had Otto leashed, so I ran to the Dogi-Pot station with him, which is basically a metal signpost with a box of baggies and some friendly instructions on keeping the park free of canine butt loaves. I had just pulled out a few baggies when Otto decided I needed a lesson on what being a free man is all about. He backed his shaggy ass right up against the sign post and unleashed a bowel disaster nothing short of phenomenal. He slid it down the post. He actually shit on the very thing that was telling him that he had to clean his shit up. It was defiant and arrogant, but I can’t think of a location that would make more sense. If an innocent bystander had to Dogi-Pot his mess, they would have to take exactly zero steps to put it in the trash. He stuck it to the man while simultaneously being as cooperative as possible. I figure this was the equivalent of me shitting on top of the toilet seat. I actually had to pick it up, and I swear I almost puked, which would be the only thing that would make this story more amazing. On a somewhat related note, I was unaware that my dog had drank a 5 gallon bucket of some sort of radioactive apple cider and Flomax cocktail before we left, but he urinated exactly 26 times in an hour, flying his flag on most of the trees and light poles in the park, and was a well timed leash jerk away from hitting Georgia’s head on at least half of these instances. As a parting shot, he fired out another collection of stink pickles right as a young girl pedaled by on a bicycle, hunkered down and staring at her as to say, “If you fall off that bike, I hope you land in this”. Everyone, break out of your shell today. Be a man.
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