Head to the dog pound.

All the way to the dog pound you continue your inaudible shriek, occasionally pausing to guffaw loudly at the thought of the poor people inside the houses you pass; struggling to suppress their excitable hounds with pepper spray and riot hoses, cursing the unknown, unseen disturbance that has caused the canine mind of their lovable pet to snap like Geoff Capes' spaghetti garter belt. And then, before you know it, you are at the pound. Doesn't time fly when you are having fun.

Struggling to suppress your giggles as you enter the reception block, you are eyed by a severe looking woman in a safari suit. You presume, correctly, that she is the pound's manager.

"May I help you?" she enquires through a pink painted sneer.

The End

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