CalebMcEwen.com

So my wife walks up and asks me completely without warning, "Did you bleed in your Coke?"

Needless to say I replied, "What?!"

She explained that she had picked up a can of Coke I had been drinking in our living room, and the top rim had been filled with blood. I assured her the blood was not mine. She assured me the blood was not hers. We wondered where the blood came from. I was going to be really upset if our house was bleeding again. Stupid ouija board...

Eventually I pieced together that the mobile ottoman we call a dog had tried to lick the Coke out of the can, cut her tongure on the inside edge of the pop-top opening, and bled copiously into my beverage. Luckily, Katy picked the can up before I took a swig, as I rarely check my Coke for blood anymore.

So I almost drank my dog's blood, which would make me a vampire...or a werewolf...or a dog vampire (dogpire)...or a werewolf vampire (werepire). Somehow I don't think it would have been as cool as Anne Rice made it out to be.

I'm a grown man. I shouldn't have to worry about whether or not I'm drinking my dog's blood every time I pick up a Coke in my living room.