"Man, my uncle had one of those," the guy with the labrador retriever and the fluffy beard says, gesturing.
I turn around and look at the doge, who is nosing around the base of a tree with no indication that she'll poop anytime soon. "Yeah, she's like, fifteen years old," I say.
"Yeah, he caught the tube on a fence or something, and boy, did he squeal!" he continues, as I realize he's talking about the drains coming out of my leg.
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