Nicholas Rush (
lottawork) wrote in
bigapplesauce2015-07-20 10:42 pm
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compile: newSubroutine designate: unwantedHouseguest [closed]
The dog is in no way growing on him.
It has proved to be admittedly unobjectionable in its patient, unhurried treatment of its surroundings, largely content to dominate sections of Rush's floor with a leisurely sprawl. He may have been presumptuous to assume his work may progress unimpeded as of the moderately alarming moment where, upon his denotation of a particularly relevant equation scrawled in the lower corner of one wall, the dog evidently thought it prudent to rest its head in his lap with little warning aside from the preceding whisper of its paws over hardwood and a low, contented huff from its nose.
The action has subsequently left Rush with an incomplete understanding as to how one would (a) rise without disrupting the ostensibly sleeping creature cradling its head in his lap, (b) purport to care very little for the animal's well-being despite his inexplicable inability to simply stand and dislodge the thing and be done with it, (c) in any way continue to maintain his reputation as a cold-hearted bastard.
Unhelpfully, this entire subsidiary of events has very likely fucked that sequential agenda truly, wholly, devotedly, and completely.
He is not, he thinks vehemently in the general direction of the continuously absent and probably totally indifferent Colonel Young, a completely cold-hearted bastard. This, if nothing else, would prove as much.
"Off," he commands the dog, raising a hand to point in a direction away from himself.
The dog yawns at him, perhaps pointedly. Rush glares at it.
"Off," he repeats.
The dog's eyes droop closed in drowsy recumbence. Rush's hand drops as he regards the recusant animal with disgust.
"You are insufferable," he informs the creature, who continues to doze on, in his lap of all places, utterly indifferent.
Rush sighs.
It has proved to be admittedly unobjectionable in its patient, unhurried treatment of its surroundings, largely content to dominate sections of Rush's floor with a leisurely sprawl. He may have been presumptuous to assume his work may progress unimpeded as of the moderately alarming moment where, upon his denotation of a particularly relevant equation scrawled in the lower corner of one wall, the dog evidently thought it prudent to rest its head in his lap with little warning aside from the preceding whisper of its paws over hardwood and a low, contented huff from its nose.
The action has subsequently left Rush with an incomplete understanding as to how one would (a) rise without disrupting the ostensibly sleeping creature cradling its head in his lap, (b) purport to care very little for the animal's well-being despite his inexplicable inability to simply stand and dislodge the thing and be done with it, (c) in any way continue to maintain his reputation as a cold-hearted bastard.
Unhelpfully, this entire subsidiary of events has very likely fucked that sequential agenda truly, wholly, devotedly, and completely.
He is not, he thinks vehemently in the general direction of the continuously absent and probably totally indifferent Colonel Young, a completely cold-hearted bastard. This, if nothing else, would prove as much.
"Off," he commands the dog, raising a hand to point in a direction away from himself.
The dog yawns at him, perhaps pointedly. Rush glares at it.
"Off," he repeats.
The dog's eyes droop closed in drowsy recumbence. Rush's hand drops as he regards the recusant animal with disgust.
"You are insufferable," he informs the creature, who continues to doze on, in his lap of all places, utterly indifferent.
Rush sighs.